Female perspective · solo play

Saccharine Sensuality

Foreword: I was given the keyword ‘eggs’ to work with this time and I was going to save this one for Easter, but I’ve decided to publish it earlier because…well let’s face it, Easter eggs were available at the supermarkets more than two months ago, so it’s barely even a seasonal thing anymore.

So here’s a piece that delves into this week’s slight obsession with Cadbury’s Creme Eggs. I’m just going to go all out and describe how these things affect me—of course, with some …egg-xaggeration. I would not go this far (or wouldn’t I?)



Saccharine Sensuality


It’s the middle of the afternoon and all of a sudden I’m craving something sweet. Not just your average chocolate bar, mind you. No, I want something so sickly and sugary that it practically numbs my taste buds to the extent that I’ll never be able to recognise a savoury flavour again. At this moment in time, there’s only one treat I can think of that will satiate this lust.

Cadbury’s Creme Eggs.


It has to be a Creme Egg. The way those notoriously gooey, sticky, sweet chocolate eggs crack open and thickly drip out their white and orange fondant is already making me stick my tongue out prematurely.

Ugh—Fuck. I better get to the supermarket and buy one before my body starts to retreat into healthy eating mode.

Just one. That’ll satisfy this craving, won’t it?


Well, I’m at the supermarket, staring the chocolate aisle right between the eyes. Oh, but the choice. Look at the choice! Boxes upon boxes full of stand-alone Creme Eggs—60p each. Wait, I can do better than that. If I buy a pack of three, I’ll save 50p overall. No, no, no. What am I saying? I don’t need three Creme Eggs. The reason I came here was to buy one. 

You’re kidding me….they even sell twelve packs?

No. Stop. Get a grip, this is too dangerous. The longer I stand around here, the higher the likelihood that I’ll make a worse decision. I just have to go with my gut instinct and go for one….

A pack of…five? If I go for those, I can get a whole pound off the total cost. Damn, this is too good to pass up. But I already said no to buying three. God, I’m such a hypocrite, going against my own advice.

Just make a fucking decision already, woman! (Yes, I have a tendency to be what I call ‘self-misogynistic’).

Well, it’s not like I have to eat them all at once, right? So, in theory, if I buy five now, I’ll be disciplined enough to make them last an entire week. After all, I went out yesterday and brought back a load of healthy groceries. So I’m obligated to fulfil my promise to myself—that I’m going to avoid too much processed sugar and eat more fruit and veg.


Perhaps needless to say, I caved and ended up purchasing that five pack. I’ve already prised open the box in desperation to view the beauties inside. The eggs are sitting comfortably there, wrapped in their foil disguises. They’re practically staring back at me from the kitchen counter, taunting me with their preemptive deliciousness.

I’m more than a little overcome with a strong urge to take one out of its packaging and stuff one right into my gob, devouring it whole. But Creme Eggs are something that should be savoured, not engulfed in a hurry. I certainly don’t want to waste the one I’ll eat today without enjoying it first. So instead of succumbing to those initial temptations, I reach out and take it from the box. I feel sightly devious doing this. It’s as though I’ve temporarily become a bird of prey stealing a real egg from a nest. But I am peckish, and I’ll stop at nothing to get at the inner contents of this sweet thing.

I put the tips of my fingers to the fold in the foil, where the Creme Egg is being kept under wraps and pull it back to reveal the bare chocolate that lies beneath. Carefully, I peel back the wrapper completely and set it down in an egg cup on the side. I move my face in closer and marvel at the aesthetic of the standard pattern that’s been etched into the egg. Then, I run a finger along those deep grooves, feeling how smooth and silky the milk chocolate is. It melts ever so slightly as I do.

But knowing what waits on the inside, well that only makes me even more anxious. After all, it’s been far too long since I treated myself to a Creme Egg. This experience is long overdue, I say!

I grab a teaspoon from the drawer, raise it into the air, then bring it down onto the top of the egg with a fair degree of purposeful force. The tender peak cracks and large chunks of outer layer break off. They continue to cling to the main body of chocolate, yet they’re mostly detached and hanging. That glorious white fondant oozes over the side of the egg, gripping those chunks as though they were about to fall off a cliff. Fondant, you can rest assured that you are the true hero of Confectionery Land!

Traces of the orange ‘yolk’ fondant also make themselves apparent, slithering gently over the chocolate layer, combining pleasingly with the white. This multifaceted visual stimulus is making me salivate with anticipation. I can practically taste how the sweetness is going to wreak havoc inside my oral cavity. Yes, this shit is going to be the death of me.

I shift closer still, the air around me already laced with the sugary smell of the substance I’ve been craving all day. First, I lick at those broken bits on the top, curling my tongue around the hard chocolate whilst brushing lightly against the fondant. I let out a quiet whimper as I finally get that much-awaited taste of heaven.

I’m here all by myself this afternoon. There’s still some time before my husband gets back from work. I could enjoy this in his presence, but you know? I can’t really justify it, but there’s just something sacred about eating chocolate alone. Not that I’m on a bus right now, but in the UK, it’s still technically illegal for a woman to consume chocolate on a bus. That’s an outdated law, to be sure, but it’s a fun one nevertheless.

I digress.

What I want to do now is get back to romancing this sweet lump of pure ecstasy with my mouth. Maybe I could have some fun and pretend it’s a cock, covered from top to bottom with Nutella or honey, or anything that easily mixes with a satisfying natural…saltiness. I’m sure you can imagine what I mean.

But the mighty Creme Egg is far from possessing that same breed of salinity. This is the raw and highly potent aphrodisiac power of processed sugar.

I want to feel like I’m drowning in a river of that gooey fondant when I lick at it. And when I bite into the sturdier chocolate part, I want the sound of it being crushed between my teeth to reverberate through my head while the residue gets so wet and sticky it covers my tongue entirely with its melted brown goodness. I won’t dare to swallow until I’ve let it fester here for at least a minute or two. I want that taste to soak right in, like a stain.

The fondant has such a delightfully thick texture. I adore the way it resembles a real egg but how it’s so cold, uncooked, and so very sweet. I jab a finger straight into the middle of it and scoop a little up on the tip. Then, as I bring it up to my nostrils for a sniff I can feel my eyes flutter with delight. It’s no good, I can barely keep myself grounded. I need to taste this properly, fully.

I stick out my tongue and begin to explore the blob of fondant I’ve collected on my finger. The lapping is at first slow and deliberate, but soon descends into a feral display of sugar lust. I’m getting so passionate about this sugar rush that I fear I might actually bite my own finger clean off.

No. Stop!

Just…settle down.

Reign in all the rushing and all the desperation.

And calm your tits, woman!

It’s only chocolate.

I do, ideally, want to enjoy this, not be wheeled into A&E with some ridiculous injury pertaining to having hyper-actively dismembered myself. So I let the tension in my shoulders go, loosen up and simply give into the sensations that encompass me. That smell, the sickly sweet stench of the ambrosia nectar is driving me insane, but I have to take it easy. I have to relish everything.

I decide to keep my finger away from the Creme Egg, mostly as a safety precaution to avoid something I am going to dub ‘auto-erotic cannibalism’. Instead, I take the teaspoon I had earlier and proceed to thrust it deep into the pool of spoogey fondant, leaving a nice hollow indent right in the centre of it. I lift the spoon up to my mouth and skim my lips over the viscous, sticky liquid. God! Even the slightest bit of contact is enough to get me sopping wet, and I mean quite a bit more than just drooling from the sides of my mouth.

Now, it’s time to suck it all up. I purse my lips and slurp at the contents of the spoon as though it’s a most welcome bowl of steaming hot chicken soup on a freezing Winter’s day. Except it’s so much sweeter than any soup could ever be. It rolls effortlessly across my tongue and trickles down my throat so easily I might as well be drinking a bottle of water.


I can feel the sugar working its magic on me almost immediately. Now, I know that sugar isn’t ‘technically’ an addictive substance, it’s just our brains tricking us into believing that we need it. But even with that in mind, I’m craving more and more with every single drip that falls inside me and lines my stomach with creamy goodness. I think all the miniature LED lights implanted somewhere in my brain just flicked on in unison. That’s how happy they are right now.

Satisfied with that first hit, my eyes dart around looking for more. I refocus my gaze onto the lower half of the milk chocolate egg shell as it sits in the cup, the fondant still slopping over those melting spikes, glistening under the light and basking in its wondrous glory. I make a bee-line for the counter and stick my tongue right inside the cracked opening, lustily devouring the fondant in one swoop-and-swallow.

Damn it.

Now I’m going to be high as a kite. I really didn’t mean to attack it so quickly. That was a mistake, something I swore I wouldn’t do. But oh…what is this feeling bubbling up inside me?

It’s so…surreal.

Well, this has never happened to me before. I pull the rim of my jeans forward a little to expose a gap between my midriff and the crotch area denim. It seems that I’ve managed to make quite a mess down there already. I’m so fucking wet it feels like I’ve just come off a ride at a water park. I’m serious. I can barely move, you know what jeans are like when they’re soaked through? It’s exactly that inconvenient. Everything has become awkward and inflexible.

And at the same time, I’m on this extremely unexpected sugar high that’s taking me further and further away from reality with each passing second. You could poke me with a burning rod and I wouldn’t feel a thing. My skin is numb and tingling. I can’t concentrate on anything, except eating more of that miraculous Creme Egg. It’s waiting for me, so patiently. It’s so willing to be consumed. It knows what it does to me.

I glance over at the remaining four Creme Eggs in the box and as I float up into the air in my self-delusion, I look down on myself and see the sides of my mouth crease upwards into a devilish smirk.

What am I thinking? Can I really take any more today?

A voice inside my head whispers to me.




You want this.

Of course, I know better. That’s the way it always is. But right now, I’m so wrapped up in this fantasy that I don’t do better. As if by clockwork, my fingers tremble with excitement. I reach forward and pick up the next sweet victim, ready to do battle with that ever-present sugar demon once again.

This time, I really might drown in an endless torrent of pleasure.

Just watch me.

I’ll send you a postcard from heaven.














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