Author’s Note: As with the last instalment of this, readers who don’t like piss drinking or foodplay should probably skip this story.
Previous recipes:
(1) Tomato Soup
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After the night when Kimberly had fed tomato soup flavoured with her piss to her unwitting girlfriend Stacy, she had hidden the recipe book high away, on the highest shelf of the kitchen, and promised herself she would never open it again. Whatever strange, hypnotic power it had exercised over her, compelling her to cook such a slutty meal, would never be released again.
But the sentences printed on the first page of “The Kitchen Primer” remained burned into her mind.
A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE KITCHEN AND THE BEDROOM.
A WOMAN’S PURPOSE IS TO SERVE AND ENTERTAIN MEN.
A WOMAN DESERVES DEGRADATION, HUMILIATION AND ABUSE.
FOLLOW THE RECIPES AND BE A GOOD GIRL.
She dreamed about those sentences. She found herself thinking about them at odd times – even whispering them to herself when she wasn’t paying attention.
She had been spending a lot more time in the kitchen since she had acquired the book – cooking for herself, and for others. She made cakes, pastries, cookies, breakfasts, dinners, lunches and desserts. Not the recipes in the book, of course – she knew that was far too dangerous. But sometimes she looked at the book, on its shelf, and wondered.
And she had been thinking about men more. She was a lesbian, she wasn’t interested in men – and yet from time to time she found herself looking at an attractive man, and wondering what it would feel like to kneel before him as his sex slave. Such thoughts made her body shiver and her pussy throb.
That lasted until the night of her dinner with her brother Michael – and her fight with Stacy.
Stacy didn’t like Michael, and when she found out Michael would be coming over for dinner, she was angry.
“He *leers* at me, Kimberly,” she said. “He’s a creep.”
“He’s my *brother*,” responded Kimberly. “And that’s just how men are. It’s harmless. I’m not just going to never see him, Stacy.”
“I can’t believe you won’t stand up for me!” said Stacy. “God, Kimberly, for a lesbian, you’re such a fucking man-pleaser.”
Kimberly had been unable to summon a response – partly because Stacy had been so angry, but also because, unexpectedly and embarrassingly, at the words “man-pleaser” Kimberly had suddenly become aware that her pussy was soaking wet. Why?
Stacy had left the house, heading off for a day at work. Kimberly, who only worked weekend shifts, was left at home to prepare for the dinner.
She fumed at Stacy the whole day. What kind of person tried to pressure their girlfriend into cutting her family out of her life? That wasn’t love, that was… abuse. Stacy could be such a bitch.
Kimberly thought back to when she had fed Stacy the piss-flavoured soup. Stacy had never even noticed. Kimberly had sat there and watched Stacy eat it, knowing all the ingredients had been up Kimberly’s cunt or ass and that she had urinated into it at the end, and said nothing. Her cunt had been wet then, too, and only wetter when she had eaten her own share of the dinner. *She* could taste her piss in it. Why couldn’t Stacy? Was Stacy just not commenting?
It occurred to her that she could piss into *all* of Stacy’s meals, and Stacy might never notice. But she put that thought out of her head quickly.
But the thought was back now. Stacy was a bitch. A lesbian, man-hating bitch. She needed to be punished.
It was half past four. It was time to get started on cooking the dinner. Kimberly would be home at five, and Michael would be here at 6 for an early dinner. Kimberly could cook now, and then leave the food on heat until it was time to serve.
Kimberly’s eyes fell on her grandmother’s cookbook and – before she could talk herself out of it – she pulled the book down and opened it to a random page.
SLEEPYTIME PASTA CARBONARA.
Kimberly’s eyes glazed over.
Good girls wear only an apron while cooking, she remembered.
Quickly she stripped nude, and then took all her clothes and put them in the bedroom, where she couldn’t access them quickly if anyone came to the door or walked in on her. Then she picked out the apron that said “Good Girl” from the pile of aprons her grandmother had left her. It didn’t cover her cunt, but that was okay. She liked how it said “good girl”. She *was* a good girl.
Anyway, no one could walk in on her. The front door and back door were locked.
A tingle of discomfort ran through her. Was that right? Should they be locked? Cooking with all the house’s doors locked felt… shameful. Like she was hiding. If someone walked in and saw her dressed like this, it would be humiliating, yes, but… didn’t women deserve humiliation?
She ran to the front door and opened it wide. She checked the screen door wasn’t locked. Then she ran to the back door and opened it too.
Returning to the kitchen, she stopped, and then carefully opened all the curtains so that she could see the outside. The kitchen was far enough back from the house’s main windows that it was unlikely anyone would see her unless they came right up to the window and pressed their face against the glass, but the fact that she could see cars driving past while she was dressed in the slutty apron made her shiver with fear and embarrassment.
She looked down at the first line of the recipe.
“As with all recipes in this book, this food is only suitable for the female gender,” it read.
The soup had said that too. It made sense to her now. Women deserved to drink piss. Men didn’t.
Follow the recipes and be a good girl, she thought to herself.
Next was a list of ingredients. The last ingredient made her gasp. She wasn’t *really* going to put that into a meal, was she?
Except that she knew that she was.
One of the other ingredients presented a challenge for her too.
Cum. It wanted her to cook with cum.
How was she going to get cum? Ask a male friend? Ask her brother?
(That second thought made her cunt throb with desire.)
They would see her in this apron. They would ask why she needed it. They would stare at her cunt. They might hang around. They might want to watch her cook.
Girls deserved humiliation, Kimberly knew, but that… was too much. She couldn’t.
But she *did* have to cook. And she *did* need cum.
Suddenly she had a thought. She had seen something that might help in the past. It was a Monday, and the group of young men who lived in the sharehouse next door partied hard on Sundays. They always had very dubious women over – Kimberly thought they might be sex workers – and then on Monday nights they took their garbage out to be collected.
And the last two Mondays, Kimberly had seen inside their garbage bin, and on top was…
She ran out the front door, blushing, hoping no one would see her nude ass and cunt. There was, blessedly, no one on the street. She ran next door and opened the bin, and there they were.
Condoms. No less than eight condoms, tied off at the opening, and filled with cum.
She gathered up the condoms and ran back to her house. She opened them one by one and tipped them into a short whiskey glass. The contents filled the glass to the three-quarters mark. It should be enough.
She was going to serve her girlfriend cum. Men’s cum. From anonymous men. She was going to eat some herself.
Her cunt throbbed again.
She read the first instruction of the recipe:
“Piss in a pasta cooker pot while masturbating. When bladder is empty, fill rest of pot with water. Add salt and heat to boiling, then add pasta to cook.”
She pulled out a large cooking pot, squatted over, began to rub her clit, and allowed her bladder to relax. She pissed into the pot, gasping with pleasure as she fingered her pussy, until her bladder was empty and there was an inch and a half of urine in the pot. Then she stood, filled the pot to the three-quarters mark with water, added salt, and set it to boil. When it was boiling, she added fettucine pasta.
She was honestly keen to discover what pasta boiled in piss tasted like.
She looked at the next instruction:
“Set pan on stove at medium heat. Shove butter up cunt, then squat over pan and masturbate, allowing heat to warm your pussy until the butter drips out into the pan.”
She was happy to keep masturbating. She put a saucepan on the stove, then took a whole stick of butter from the fridge, climbed up on the bench and squatted over the pan. The butter went up her cunt – it felt good, sliding up there – and then she resumed fingering her pussy.
She pictured her brother walking in and seeing her like this, and it was hard to resist orgasming. Not yet. She didn’t deserve it.
Slowly, she began to feel the heat from the pan warming her pussy. And as she did, she felt the butter start to melt inside her and drip out into the saucepan. It felt good – slutty, and good.
A woman’s place is in the kitchen and the bedroom, she thought. Just like this.
When all the butter had melted, and trickled out into the pan in a slutty liquid mess, she got down from the counter reluctantly.
“Prepare a stirring instrument by shoving it up your anus until it is needed for stirring.”
She knew this one. She transferred a little of the remaining melted butter from her cunt to her anus, and then shoved the handle of a wooding spoon far enough up her ass that she felt she could hold it in place by clenching her buttocks.
“Add bacon. Cook for 4 minutes or until golden, still masturbating.”
She threw bacon in the pan, on top of the butter, and resumed rubbing her twat. The feel of the spoon shoved up her ass made it feel even better, and once again she had to be careful not to cum.
“Add garlic and rosemary. Cook, stirring using implement from your anus, for 1 minute or until fragrant.”
She had garlic and rosemary in the backyard. She waddled outside, moving slowly to keep the spoon in her ass, crossed the garden, and bent to pick the herbs. She looked up briefly, but nobody was waching her over the fences.
She returned to the kitchen and added the herbs, then pulled the spoon out of her ass and stirred with it.
“Crack eggs over a bowl by inserting them into your pussy and gently squeezing until the shell cracks and contents run out into the bowl. “
She got out the bowl and squatted over it. Gently, she pushed an egg into her wet fuckhole. It felt strange in there. Slowly, she brought her legs together and squeezed her cunt muscles.
With a gentle crack, the egg broke, and Kimberly felt yoke and white slide out of her twat and into the bowl. The eggshell stayed inside her, stuck to her cunt walls. It wasn’t sharp enough to hurt her, but it felt weird – kind of gritty.
She put another egg into her and broke it the same way. She wanted to clean the eggshell out of her twat, but the recipe hadn’t told her to.
“And semen and parmesan. Season with salt and pepper.”
She tipped the cup of the neighbours’ cum over the eggs, and then grated parmesan over it, before adding salt and pepper.
“Drain pasta and return to saucepan.”
Simple enough. The pasta was done. She drained it.
“Add egg and semen mixture and bacon mixture to pasta, along with crushed Rohypnol.”
This was what had made her gasp. Rohypnol was a date rape drug. It caused drowsiness, interfered with willpower and executive function, and inhibited the formation of memories. A woman on Rohypnol would be suggestible enough to be led into a position where she could be raped, would be powerless to resist that rape, and in the morning her memories would be so confused she couldn’t be sure what had happened.
She was going to give herself and her girlfriend a date rape drug. In the presence of her brother.
Getting the drug itself might have been an issue – except she already had some. Her brother had given her a pack once, as a joke.
“If Stacy’s every kind of icy in bed, just slip her one of these and have fun,” he had told her. He had laughed, so they both knew he wasn’t serious.
Kimberly hadn’t asked why he had the drugs. Boys would be boys, she supposed. He had probably got them from a friend as a similar kind of joke present.
She went and got the packet now, punched out six tablets, and crumbled them across the food, mixing them with the egg, semen and bacon, before combining the entire sauce with the pasta.
“Cook, tossing over low heat, for 1 minute or until sauce thickens and coats pasta. While you wait, masturbate, and call the last number in your phone that you received a call from, and tell whoever answers that you’re a disgusting slut who deserves to be raped.”
The last number in her phone was her bank, who had been calling to see if they could offer her a new investment account. She fingered her cunt and called it back. A woman answered.
“National Central Bank,” said the woman. “How can I help you today?”
“I’m a disgusting slut that deserves to be raped,” said Kimberly, and hung up.
The food was ready.
Stacy would be home soon.
But there was one line left in the recipe, and it presented a problem:
“Serve alongside a glass of 50% champagne and 50% male piss.”
Kimberly couldn’t remove the apron until she had completed the recipe. She had secured cum, but where would she get piss?
She could go nextdoor and ask the men in the sharehouse to…
No. She would have to do in her apron. She would be lucky if she wasn’t raped.
She thought – and she could only see one solution.
Reluctantly, she dialled her brother.
“Hi Kimberly, what’s up?”
Kimberly felt intense shame to be talking to her brother mostly nude, with a wet cunt full of butter and eggshells, even if he couldn’t see her.
“Um, Michael,” she said, “can I ask for something weird?”
“Sure,” he said. “What is it?”
“Could you, um, urinate in a bottle, and bring it with you tonight? Like, just as much urine as you can.”
Her cheeks were burning.
“Holy fuck, Kimberly, that’s gross,” he said. “Why?”
“It’s a, um, garden experiment,” she said. “I want to try it on our tomatoes. It’s supposed to be, um, good for the soil.”
“Does it have to be just mine?” he said. “I’ve just had Dave round for afternoon drinks, he could probably stand to drain his tank as well.”
More would be better. She wasn’t sure if Michael could half-fill two champagne glasses by himself.
“Sure,” she said. “That would be great.”
She hung up.
And with the last step of the recipe arranged, she could finally take off the apron and finger herself to orgasm.
It felt so good, she almost forgot to rush to the shower and wash the butter and eggshells out of her twat before Stacy got home.
===
She had to make a whole second meal, of course, to have something to feed to Michael. Stacy didn’t even notice that she was cooking something new when there was plainly an already-completed pasta meal simmering. She just sulkily changed into an attractive dress, still clearly not happy about hosting Michael.
Nor did Michael see what Kimberly did with his piss when he presented her with an old milk bottle filled with his and his friend’s urine. She took it into the kitchen, and used it to half fill two champagne glasses, before topping them up with actual champagne. There was a little leftover, so she drank it directly from the bottle. It tasted a little gross, but she knew she deserved it for what she had done – and what she was about to do.
Stacy was still in bitch mode when she sat down to dinner, and she demonstrated by immediately picking up her champagne glass and draining it in an aggressive way. Afterwards, she wrinkled her nose.
“Jesus, that champagne is… not good,” she complained. “Where did you get it?”
“Oh, it’s a new brand,” said Kimberly, sipping at her own urine-and-champagne. “It’s all the rage, but if you don’t like it…”
“No, pour me another,” said Stacy. “I need to get drunk tonight.”
Kimberly went into the kitchen and refilled Stacy’s glass to the two-thirds mark with champagne. She didn’t have any more of Michael’s piss, so she lifted her own skirt, pulled aside her panties, and topped it up with her own urine.
“This is better,” said Stacy, upon tasting it. “I guess it’s just an acquired taste.”
Kimberly watched Stacy try the pasta, which had been boiled in her piss, and flavoured with a sauce of cum.
“It’s buttery,” said Stacy. “I like it.”
The butter had been up Kimberly’s cunt.
Kimberly tasted her own. It was surprisingly enjoyable. She ate more. She finished off her champagne and went to the kitchen to pour another. This time she finished emptying her bladder into her glass, only topping up the last tenth of so with actual champagne. She returned to the table, drinking her piss and reflecting on how women deserved degradation.
And shortly after that, the Rohypnol kicked in, and her memories became unreliable.
Had she collapsed? Or had Stacy? Had Michael… kissed Stacy? She seemed to remember her brother’s lips pressed against those of her girlfriend and Stacy moaning. Had she undressed for Michael? Had she chosen to do that, or had Michael undressed her. And then…
When she woke in the morning, she was in bed with Stacy, with no covers over her. They were both naked. Stacy was still fast asleep and snoring softly.
Kimberly sat up and looked at her girlfriend. Her naked cunt was pretty.
But there, between Stacy’s pussy lips… was that… cum?
Thick white fluid, gently oozing from Stacy’s twat.
Had Michael raped Kimberly’s girlfriend?
She quickly checked her own pussy. No sign of penetration.
Stacy would never know. Stacy *could* never know… as long as Kimberly hid the evidence.
Quickly, she moved between her girlfriend’s legs, and started licking. Licking her brother’s cum out of her girlfriend’s cunt. So that Stacy wouldn’t know that Michael had raped her.
So that Michael would get the chance to do it again.
Kimberly’s cunt gushed with humiliating, traitorous arousal, and she began to masturbate as she licked.
And her mind turned to the cookbook, and she wondered what she would cook next.
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If you enjoyed this story, you can find more erotic stories of piss-play in my e-book Golden Sins, available for only $7.99 USD in the All These Roadworks store! Your purchase shows your appreciation and supports the creation of hot new content! (Click here to view in store.)
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Kimberly returns to her cursed cookbook and finds herself forced to create a slutty pasta dish.
