The blue banana bread

by BRK   

Determined to make his family’s traditional chocolate chip banana bread for his Christmas dinner party with hubby Jag and their friends Owen and Greg, Mikey is forced to use the blue ones when his original supply goes bad.

I’ve always been pretty introverted. Growing up my idea of a good time was curling up in a bay window reading a book (paper or digital, I didn’t care) or playing solo video games that explicitly did not have any congregations of capital Ms in their type description, or maybe a solitary run in the grassy hills, far from the scourge of people. My super-extroverted boyfriend Jag, now my husband, was and is amused by these reclusive tendencies, and from the start tended to treat me more or less like a cat: self-possessed, flighty, and willing to be petted if correctly coaxed.

Like a good cat, I warmed to my person and allowed for certain concessions to my cohabitatory situation, on my own terms of course. So when I agreed to a little dinner party at our new snowbound suburban bungalow ahead of our first Christmas as a married couple, the surprised delight in his expression as we snuggled in front of the fire after dinner negated most of my reluctance and caused me to fill with secret glee at my own cleverness.

I got a lot of special attention from Jag that night.

The get-together two weeks later was kept small: just the two of us and two guests, Jag’s best friend Owen and his new partner, Greg. Jag and Owen worked out together and generally looked like they should be catalog models or soap actors, both tall and delightfully lanky with twinkling eyes and dimpled smiles, plus subtle bulges in the right places that suggested ample endowment. Jag was the luxuriously-haired brunet and Owen the haystack dirty blond, but otherwise they were peas in a pod. Greg was a more bookish sort, though fit and compact like me, and Jag and Owen hoped we’d find a lot in common. They arrived dressed according to type: Owen was wearing a very tight oatmeal henley and chocolate jeans that hugged his legs and ass, while Greg, bashful smile framed by a rusty beard, had on a finely knit navy-blue sweater (which showed no features of his physique whatsoever) and loose corduroys (ditto).

Jag and I were a little bit less thematic: I was cooking, so I was wearing my lucky Auguste Escoffier tee shirt from high school, now a bit tighter across the chest than it was then, though the dark peach color hadn’t much faded. Jag, alone among us, had elected to dress for the holiday with a tailored sweatshirt depicting a hunky, dark-haired and pointy-eared man-sized elf in a thick cable-knit sweater cuddling in the back of his sleigh with a white-furred and fairly twink-like anthropomorphic cat. (He’d had it specially made, knowing the imagery would niggle at me in complicated ways, and I wanted to tear the sexy thing off him at the earliest opportunity. Whether that would be before our guests left was still an open question.)

The four of us traded hugs in the tiny foyer, Owen and Greg gushing about the delightful smells coming from our kitchen, and we got them seated. The feast-in-moderation was soon laid out on the red-tableclothed dining table, and Owen grinned as Jag carved the smallish turkey I’d roasted to perfection. “Look at you and Mikey, all domestic,” Owen teased as he received his plate piled with fine, redolent slices of juicy breast meat.

“Careful, it could happen to you, you randy fucker,” he said, nodding his chin toward Greg.

Owen looked at Greg fondly. “If anyone could do it,” he admitted. Greg ducked his head, hiding a smile.

The dish I was most nervous about was the dessert. Sweet chocolate-chip banana bread was traditional in my house on holidays and special occasions; my great-grandma’s recipe was peerless, in my estimation, whether the results were eaten cold or toasted and smeared with butter, as I preferred, especially the day after. But the bananas I’d bought had gone bad prematurely and had had to be thrown out; and this close to the holiday the local grocery store was picked clean, with only a single small hand of hale-looking but very blue extra-large bananas to be had by the time I got there that morning. I’d purchased them reluctantly, and I served the finished, visibly blue-tinged bread with a sheepish expression. “Don’t mind the color,” I said, laying the sliced loaf on the mostly cleared table as Jag poured mugs of coffee. “It tastes fine, I assure you.”

“Smells great,” Greg said—he’d been opening up a little over the course of the meal. I shrugged, cutting everyone two thick slices so the loaf would be used up—I didn’t want leftovers to remind me of this particular aberration.

“Tastes great, too,” affirmed Owen. He’d already lopped off a large piece of one of his slices with his fork, skewered it, and shoved it in his mouth before I’d even sat down and started buttering my warm-from-the-oven slice. (No one else was doing the butter thing.) I’d’ve thought Owen had a sweet tooth from his eagerness, despite his flat waist and low body fat all around; but he’d been just as enthusiastic about the turkey, asparagus, and scalloped potatoes.

Jag swallowed his big chuck and winked at me, making “yummy” motions over his hidden six-pack. I rolled my eyes, and he turned to grin at his friend. “You,” Jag told him, “just like food. And sex,” he added with a wink. “If this came with cum-flavored icing that would be your ideal.”

Owen’s green eyes seemed to light up at this, surprisingly. “Can I?” he asked, almost sounding like he was serious. “I kind of want to try it.”

Jag shook his head in friendly exasperation, gently shifting his lush, sable-dark locks. “Just because you’re hard and ready to cum all the time,” he joked, “doesn’t mean you actually have to do it.”

I lifted my eyebrows at this, but Owen just grinned, well-pleased with himself. Greg met my gaze and confided in an awed whisper, “He is, though. Ready, all the time!” He sounded like it was a challenge to keep up with—one he thoroughly enjoyed trying to meet.

I still figured we were joking, though thinking back I had noticed that Owen had been hard as an iron pipe when he’d hugged—I’d felt it against my hip, eight inches at least and girthy. He had been the other two or three times we’d met, too, come to think of it. And his loose trousers had been showing a hefty double-bulge for his balls. “Yeah?” I said. “So, is it true? Does he coat his food with his delicious cum?”

Greg just nodded, his eyes round. I squinted at him, not above a little teasing of my own. “I bet you like it,” I said. Greg just nodded again, his lips quirking into his well-trimmed beard this time.

“It’s tasty and addictive,” Owen affirmed smugly, nodding down at the permaboner he had hidden just under the festively adorned table.

“You’re just glad you’ve got two of those monsters, one for savory and one for sweet,” Jag cracked, downing the last of his two slices of banana bread.

Owen nodded, agreeing. “That’s standard, though. All guys have that, right?” He smirked at me.

I held my ground—introverts aren’t pussies, ya know. “I never noticed much of a difference with mine,” I said evenly, as I rose to gather the dessert plates. Secretly, I’d always thought the stripes of cum across my abs from my left cock tasted a little more like peppermint candy when I daubed a finger in the goo to taste it compared to the spunk from the right dick, which I thought hinted of turmeric and Jag said tasted faintly of gravy; but I wasn’t going to tell him that. Owen chuckled.

Jag rose with me and helped with the dishes, proposing a tour of our new house, The place felt especially cozy and inviting of exploration and nook-finding tonight, with the aroma of food in the air and the awareness of snowdrifts and suburban tundra surrounding us on all sides. Owen and Greg agreed and stood as well, the bulges of Owen’s cocks unmistakable as always. Jag hadn’t been kidding when he called them “monsters”—they had to be a foot long each, and a couple inches across. Greg was eyeing them hungrily, but when he saw me looking as I came back from the kitchen he glanced away, blushing.

I nudged his shoulder. “I’d be obsessed, too,” I said. “They’re obviously big and beautiful. I bet you get hard just from being near them, just from how big and tasty they are.”

Greg adjusted his own erections in his cords as we followed our taller, hunkier partners through the house. “I’m sure Jag is just as… ‘above average’ as Owen is,” he said, as though he were concerned I might be jealous.

I huffed in amusement. I’d always been almost dead-on average at 10 thick inches in both cocks, so Jag’s 13 inches was definitely “above average.” Going by the amount of dusky pink shaft pushing past Owen’s waistband, though, I was pretty sure my husband’s bestie had at least a couple or three inches on him.

Fuck, I was chubbing up, too. Maybe everyone got turned on around Owen and his always-ready-to-blow giant cocks. I looked over at Greg, wondering how he handled all that equipment. “If he’s so randy and constantly gagging to cum, you must have some way of satisfying both of those monster dicks at once,” I fished.

He turned both heads toward me and offered a pair of shy smiles. “Just the obvious,” he whispered. “It’s, uh, how I caught his attention,” he added.

“And kept it, I’m sure,” I said. “He’s not going to be going anywhere else. Lucky bugger,” I added, and I meant it, too. I could use a setup like that, I thought wistfully, picturing my hubby’s devastatingly perfect and utterly delicious 12-inch tools (donut glaze flavor on the right, smoky bacon on the left). Damn where did I get an extra cock-sucking head? Bath & Body Mods? I snickered at the thought.

We had reached the spare bedroom, which Jag had set up as a weight room. He was in there every day for at least an hour. I’d done a little noodling about, that was all—I preferred to keep my slinky figure mostly via long runs in the countryside, even in winter. I might even go out later, after our guests were gone and Jag and I had fucked each other’s brains out.

“And of course,” Jag said, gesturing to the chin-up bar mounted securely in the doorframe, “this is where Mikey likes to hang like a cat-man.”

I gave him a sour look. It wasn’t like I did it all the time—I just liked the feel of stretching everything out after a run sometimes. Owen was looking closely at the metal bar, which was configured to be used with different positionings depending on the exercise you were doing. “Two sets of grips, eh?” he snarked. “One for each of your four front paws?”

I shoved all four hands in my pockets. “I don’t have paws,” I said firmly, looking Owen in the eye. One good thing about having the extra row of defined pecs (and matching leg length) was I was tall enough to go toe to toe with the guys I liked—tall and muscled—and their friends, too.

“He did say you were a cat-man,” Greg put in unexpectedly with matching slight smiles. He was looking me up and down curiously, as though checking for signs of white fur bursting from the collar of my peach-colored famous-chef tee. Man, people really liked to see me cat out.

“Only when I want to be,” I insisted, pretending to be sulky and annoyed. “And when I’m not being mercilessly teased.”

Jag gathered me to him and started rubbing along my nape and through my loose, platinum-white hair, nuzzling against my temple as he cooed at me in a ridiculous voice. “C’mon, kitty, show us your eeeears...!”

I tried to growl, but a soft purring was all that came from my chest despite my meme-worthy glower. Jag kept at it, and Owen and Greg joined in, skritching at my shoulder and under my chin. With all of them this close I could smell their powerful arousal—one of the side effects of being a voluntary animal shifter, for better and for worse; and getting riled up always made me show just a bit of my cat. Still human, but fuzzy, and with a perky red-tipped pair of—

“There they are,” Jag murmured, still in his “wudda-cute-kitty” voice. He started scratching around the ears through my thick white head hair, and my long tail—which I had had pushed out through the standard hole in my jeans the whole night—whipped around behind me, betraying my happiness. (Even in full human mode I found it hard to go without the tail most days.)

The three hotties were pushing closer, mouthing and kissing my slightly furry neck and stroking my long back and my quartet of well-defined, thinly furred arms. I was fully hard now and beyond horny. I let Jag kiss me, then Owen, then Greg (twice); and as I felt my pants being unbuckled and my shirt pulled off it occurred to me that there might be something to be said for holiday dinner parties after all.

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