Jacky Donovan - Instant Whips and Dream Toppings
Instant Whips and Dream Toppings is Jacky Donovan's first book. An autobiography of her life as Mistress Kimberley, the latest BDSM book to entice and titillate people. Instant Whips and Dream Toppings is unique amongst the latest BDSM books, domination books and fetish books. It is a witty tale of the quirky, bizarre, funny and often tear jerking sessions of Jacky Donovan as Mistress Kimberley. Set against a backdrop of Jacky Donovan's private life, Instant Whips and Dream Toppings provides a sharp contrast with her previous frumpy and submissive self. Readers of 50 Shades of Grey, Sylvia Day and similar successful BDSM books will love Instant Whips and Dream Toppings for its unique take on the BDSM scene. Similarly, the light hearted and witty style of Instant Whips and Dream Toppings ensures that it holds great appeal for lovers of chick-lit style books. Top selling BDSM books will soon see Instant Whips and Dream Toppings amongst their midst. For further details of Jacky Donovan please see the About the author Page. For a cheeky glimpse at excerpts from the book please click the Excerpts from Instant Whips and Dream Toppings link. Information about the latest reviews of Instant Whips and Dream Toppings can be found on the Reviews page. To buy Instant Whips and Dream Toppings go to the Buy now page. If you would like to get in touch with Jacky Donovan, author of Instant Whips and Dream Toppings then please visit the contacts page
1/ Cream Tease and HP Sauce
It is the satisfying squelch of the chocolate gateau as I smear it over the jowly face of the Right Dishonourable Gentleman in front of me that finally convinces me that not becoming Managing Director of one of the UK’s largest security companies was, indeed, the right decision. To be or not to be…a captain of industry. That was the question. Accept the position and a career in security, or politely turn it down and face a possible future of insecurity as a result?
If I’d not arrived at that particular fork in the road twelve months ago, then maybe I wouldn’t be in the sticky situation in which I currently find myself: in a darkened room with a large silver spoon in my hand that I am using to scoop up a hefty blob of cream. Whipped cream.
“Now then,” I smack my lips and smile. “Who wants some of this?”
As if I needed to ask. He is clearly enjoying having his cake and eating it too. My jaw had dropped when I’d opened the door, recognising him instantly. It was... well, obviously I can’t tell you. This particular private session with an MP and a constituent will forever demand I keep my own cake hole firmly closed. Let’s just say, despite what you might be thinking, he hadn’t been elected to serve Bakewell. Or Chelsea. Or Eccles. He’s using our brief ceasefire as an opportunity to taste some of the luxury chocolate gateau smeared all down one side of his podgy face. He scrapes off some remnants from his flabby, wobbly arms and from his bloated stomach. Or stomachs, he must weigh twenty-five stones at least. Then he starts to lick the cream and chocolaty crumbs from each of his chubby fingers. This guy should be seriously worried about his cholesterol levels, I think as I start towards him, the weapon of body-mass destruction clutched in my hand.
He counterattacks my cream offensive by merely standing there, caked in sponge, and shouts, “I mean it now, I’m really going to get you this time.”
I’m glad he’s enjoying himself, even if I’m finding the experience too much to swallow.
Whether it is nobler to suffer the slung pastries or to take arms against a sea of truffles, I am uncertain: all I know is, for this session, I’m
earning an outrageous fortune. Suddenly, naked apart from a pair of fetching knee-high navy socks and chocolate-streaked boxer shorts, he leaps towards me, huffing and puffing confectionery-based obscenities. How different he looks compared to the image he normally chooses to present to the House or in front of the TV cameras. The carefully constructed image that the public think they know well.
“You haven’t won this battle yet,” he snarls menacingly as he stops to pick a glacé cherry out from between his buttocks and flick it onto my black tiled floor.
“I’m going to make you eat that later,” I bark, but then try to duck as some airborne jelly – strawberry? – suddenly comes flying towards me. Too late! It catches me full in the face and lodges in my hair, the rest of it slopping against the wall behind me. Three things quickly flash through my mind. Firstly, I’m pleasantly surprised to discover it’s actually raspberry, my favourite flavour. Secondly, as my hair stands on end and stays there, I wonder if L'Oréal are aware of the potential benefits of using jelly or other sugary desserts in their hairspray products: “Our new hair care range: blancmange and custard. Because you’re worth it...”
Thirdly, I’m getting tired. We’ve been acting out this bizarre bun fight for nearly two hours and it’s time to come to the end of this particular course. Besides, I have my own battles with food to contend with and to be fighting with someone who thinks it’s fun has become uncomfortable, even for me.
As we fool around with filthy fairy cakes and erotic éclairs, I notice his – fairly insubstantial – cock raising a point of order, no doubt wanting to join in the fun. I briefly wonder whether I should grab some doughnuts to see how many this member of the house could cheerfully support; my guess is less than half a baker’s dozen. However, this motion is dismissed when I spy a lemon cheesecake on the bed, untouched by our whipped cream wars.
I strike my most seductive pose, no mean feat with my blonde, usually luscious, hair now full of jelly and my black PVC catsuit covered in cream. I grab a fistful of the cheesecake. He’s visibly salivating as I slowly edge towards him.
“Are you going to let me eat that?” he begs, quivering, dropping to his knees. More....