For some, the opening of the velvet lined box they are kept in elicits fear, for others, pride or excitement. Will it be the polishing cloth or will they be set out for service? Who will handle them? Whose hands and mouths will they meet? For Soup Spoon, there is a thrill in being used, and today, having been laid beside Dinner Knife she recognizes the soft steps and quiet humming of Lucy, her favourite of the maids. To be touched by Lucy is to be appreciated, her fingers are so warm and delicate. As Lucy gazes into Soup Spoon’s mirrored curves, she is dreamy and pensive, and lets out a soft moan to herself. Soup Spoon swoons at the sound and wishes she would be lifted, just once, to Lucy’s lips.
Suddenly she is clutched in Lucy’s hand, more urgently than the girl has ever handled her. Darkness and the rustling of petticoats close in around Soup Spoon and she feels a smooth expanse of warm flesh as she is drawn up Lucy’s thigh. This strange place is confusing but pleasant, so warm and filled with new textures and sensations. A brush of satin lace and Soup Spoon is tucked beneath Lucy’s knickers. The atmosphere is tropical, damp and hot. Soup Spoon revels in the heat, warming through, the soft sounds Lucy makes give her purpose and she delights as Lucy’s fingers lift and tap her against the soft, wet folds of her cunt. Soup Spoon can’t fathom what Lucy must be thinking, to use her so. Perhaps she’s daydreaming of the Duke, she often giggles with the other maids about him. Flooded by Lucy’s mischievous pleasure, Soup Spoon is a willing surrogate to the Duke’s touch, a greedy toy, eagerly bathing in the lake of pleasure now pooling in Lucy’s pretty underthings.
As quickly as it began, it is over, and Soup Spoon is lifted out from under Lucy’s dress into the light, proudly gleaming with sticky strings of Lucy’s own desire. In a perfect climax, Soup Spoon is drawn into Lucy’s perfect mouth and finally feels the caress of her lips, the suction and pleasure of her tongue. Lovingly dried on Lucy’s apron, Soup Spoon catches Lucy’s smiling reflection in her surface and her little silver heart flutters knowing no stew or broth or consommé will ever compare.
