Martha Stewart Does St. Patrick's Day by Criss Moody

Yadayadayada….Angel started to doze off as he listened to Cordelia rant at Wesley about the evils of being clean, organized, and unceasingly pleasant to everyone, even the clients. This argument had been going on for hours, and the vampire couldn't tell if an end was anywhere in his future. Well, he supposed argument was being unfair to Delia…after all, yelling at someone for that long really took vocal talent.

Mmmm…what to do with himself while he dozed…sexual fantasies usually worked while he was suffering through a Cordy rant. Not about Delia…unless they also starred Doyle nude, usually swimming in chocolate pudding. Oh stop laughing, it was just an image he could get. And it was a tad bit better than fried Doyle.

So…what to fantasize about? Tomorrow was St. Patrick's Day…mmmm…green frosting, Wesley, and Doyle. A regular two course meal, actually, it would be more like a two course desert. He could use the "Martha Stewart Does the Holidays" cookbook Cordelia had left in his apartment after her latest cooking fiasco.

Take one batch of butter frosting, creamy, laden with fat and sugar, and mix in a large quantity of green dye. Hopefully, this will result in a nice minty shade of green. Using index finger, carefully apply frosting to lovely, warm male chests in decorative swirls, avoiding nipples for the time being. Lave chest area with wet, cool tongue until frosting has been consumed and chest is heaving. Then, delicately lick nipple with tip of tongue, blowing on the wet area before applying a thick coat of sweet frosting to the tiny bit of flesh. In cases of both chests and their owners, it might be a wise idea to apply a gag at this point. High-pitched British voices can ruin the second stage, and Irishmen are notoriously bad at shutting up.

Next, deposit both hunks of gorgeous, manly, plentifully warm flesh down on a clean surface, hard or soft according to your own preference. Don't forget to bring the bowl of frosting. Now comes every cook's favorite part. With an inch wide plastic doohickey, or a spatula if you will, draw a large shamrock on the wide expanses of belly, putting the majority of the leaves on the Irishman's stomach (in the interests of keeping the holiday in mind) and the stem on the Englishman's tummy, preferably curving into wiry black pubic hair. Once again use a judicious application of your tongue to lick away every last remnant of gooey, almost too sweet, frosting from bellies. This is usually a tumultuous stage, as the flesh upon which you are feasting undulates and twitches. Be careful to avoid planting your nose in any remaining frosting.

In the final stage, studiously coat both pulsing erections with just a dainty layer of the green lusciousness. Now, sit back on the end of the bed, and watch the bodies strain for more of any kind contact, clearly driven to near insanity by the teasing touches, licking, and occasional nibbling. (Vampires have oral fetishes and are sometimes prone to indulging them at this stage.) The frosting will slowly melt from the extended contact with warm human flesh, and the trickling sugary butter will produce yet more undulation and whimpering from the living deserts. If you wish your humans to stay amongst the not-dead-from-a-stress-heart-attack type of beings, now is the time to move onto the crowning achievement of this magnificent desert.

Make sure that the bodies are touching, or more specifically their left legs. Straddle the left legs. Placing one hand on the cock to your left, suck the cock to your right into your mouth. The melting butter should have reached just the right point to make the sugar melt as well, leaving nothing but tasty melty goodness in your mouth. (Vampires may not totally appreciate the TMG, but it's fun anyway.) Earnestly suckle on the hard, veiny treat in your mouth while your hand does deliciously decadent things to the other cock. Concentrate for a moment on the feelings produced in your body by the rubbing of your own silk covered steel against the muscled, hairy left legs of your deserts. Enjoy the hissing from the body that currently has your mouth surrounding its manhood, a reaction stemming from your sudden swallowing of the entire cock into your throat. If you time it just right, you can set off the loveliest chain reaction.

First, the cock in your mouth should succumb to the delicious contractions of your throat and shoot warm salty cream down your throat. Savor the warmth in your usually tepid body. Take your mouth off the cock and be considerate enough to clean the softening member of all traces of frosting and semen. Second, speed up the movements of your hand, pumping the cock on the left until it shoots its own heated load. If you remember to aim the shuddering cock at your mouth, you can catch the ejaculate on your tongue. Swallow eagerly. At last, you can enjoy your own orgasm, grind, thrust, and when you're almost there…

"Angel? Hey, undead man! I've been talking to you for almost five minutes, have you heard even a word I've said?" Cordelia stood in front of him, her arms akimbo, her body vibrating with indignant anger.

"Eh? Oh, Cordelia, um…yeah, sorry, I was just trying to…um..think of something to say?" Angel offered weakly, perfectly aware of what he had been "hearing."

"Are you okay? Your eyes got all glassy and you were almost falling out of your chair. You don't have some kind of vampire illness do you? 'Cause if you rolf blood and stuff on the carpets, I am so not cleaning it up."

"Cordelia, I'm fine, I'm just…" Angel stopped when he realized that he had an erection to rival a battering ram at the moment. "…gonna go down and take a shower." The vampire hastily stood up with the intention of avoiding his secretary's wrath and dashed into his office. Nearly bent over from the acute agony in his groin, he nearly screamed when Wesley's voice floated in from the outer office.

"Angel? Would you be up for a bit of cake later? I found the most charming St. Patrick's Day cake in a bakery down the street. It has a curious minty green shade of frosting. An odd choice, but it certainly does look tasty."

Angel closed his eyes, bit down on his tongue, and cursed St. Patrick's Day, Martha Stewart, and Cordelia for leaving that damn book in his apartment in the first place.

Talk about cursed.

One luscious desert all gone away and one so clueless it would take a nuclear bomb to clue Wesley into the possible feast he had in front of him.

Sigh.

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