Guy Fieri, with his iced blond spikey hair and bowling shirt curling with licking flames, looked like a walking time capsule from the year 1994. His arms and neck were lobster-red, on account of his having made the trip in his ’68 ragtop Chevy with the top down. The sweltering Savannah sun dripped humidity as oppressive as thick molasses, and sphagnum dripped from the weeping trees that lined the gravel path leading to the plantation house.
A black woman, melanin deepened almost to cobalt by the sun, bowed as Mr. Fieri parked his car. She wore a French maid’s outfit. “Ma name is Delilah,” she said.
Guy smiled, and turned redder. He pointed a beefy forearm toward the woman and said, “I love that Georgia accent!”
“Thank ya, Mr. Ferry,” she said, mangling his last name, but charming him all the same. He was famous, the most popular chef with male viewers over at the Food Network, but sometimes people still screwed up his Italian surname when they tried it on for size. He slammed the car door on his ragtop, whose metallic black body was hot enough to hum from the force of the sun.
Another member of the staff appeared. This one was a liveried black man who resembled Uncle Ben, with a wide grin and shock of snowy hair. He stood next to one of the ionic columns fronting the estate, and said, “Ms. Deen will see you now, boss man.” His voice had as much twang to it as a finely-tuned banjo.
Guy stifled a bit of uneasiness, acrid bile swimming in his stomach, and managed a smile. Maybe it was those Extreme Fajita Flingers drenched in Ranch dressing that he ate earlier that were making his gut hurt right now, or it could have been the fact that he hadn’t had a chance to write down his Zing Zang Flank Steak slathered in Donkey Sauce recipe for Ms. Deen, but something was bothering him, deep within the clogged arteries of his heart.
He walked toward the front of the building, tweaked his diamond-studded shades, and said, “Let’s go to Flavor Town!”
The maid and the butler shared a conspiratorial laugh, before the butler said, “That’s what Miss Dean be intending to do, boss.” He opened the front door of the mansion with a white-gloved hand. “She’s about to take you to Flavor Town.”
“I’m ready,” Guy said, his voice gravelly as always, as if he was gargling rubbing alcohol and his glottis was on fire.
“Right this way.” The butler pointed a white glove toward the kitchen, where the rich smell of egg and frying cheese drew him, luring him into the trap that celebrity chef Paula Deen had set for him when she first extended him this invitation to her Savannah mansion.
Guy crossed the kitchen’s threshold, and what he saw horrified him, but it was too late to turn back. The door slammed shut behind him, and he heard the turn of a key whose click echoed as if this room of vulcanized counters, rosined wood, and marble were to be his tomb.
“Hey ya’ll!” Paula Deen’s rubbery double-chin jittered like a turkey waddle. The rest of her flesh, he saw, was not quite as sunburnt. Paula was naked, except for some strange device harnessed around her waist, which was cinched tightly and concealed the vast majority of her stretchmark-scarred, southern fried cellulite.
“Wait a minute,” Guy said, trying the knob of the door behind him again, to no avail. “This isn’t Flavor Town!” Celebrity Chef Paula Deen smiled, and she savored his fear like the sadistic mistress she was. She could smell the terror in the sweat that dripped from the gelled liberty spikes jutting from the chef’s platinum blonde cockscomb.
Paula turned so that she was facing him now directly now. Some sort of a confectionary phallus, a strap-on made from a frozen wedge of cheesecake, jutted from the leather and brass studded harness she wore around her waist.
“Sugar,” she said, accent dripping Georgia pride and hospitality. “I don’t know if you got taste buds in that sweet little ass of yours, but if so…” She walked until she was behind him, and shoved him up against the vulcanized kitchen range. “You’re going to Flavor Town. You’re going to Flavor Town, long and hard.”
“Wait a minute!” He held up a hand in protest, but Paula gripped his right forearm, and his other arm, and pinned both limbs against the tiled countertop.
The Georgian chef undid Guy’s belt in one swift motion, and his pants dropped to the floor. “Ain’t no ‘wait a minute,’ sugar.” She leaned closely into his right ear, bit the fleshy lobe, and her hot breath came in minty gusts that smelled like chilled Georgian julep.
“Rachael Ray’s more of a man than you are.” She wended her right hand beneath the fabric of his boxer shorts, which were patterned with licking tendrils of red flame, just like his trademark bowling shirt. “Ain’t gonna be no problem, is it, sugar?” She now licked the ear into which she spoke, and Guy, against his will, noticed his prostate slicking with volutes of ass milk, nature’s donkey sauce.
Paula slowly slid the middle finger of her right hand into Guy Fieri’s puckered sphincter. Guy let out his trademark growl, followed by a high pitched squeal counterpointed by the reflexive contraction of his anal muscles, as he accommodated Ms. Deen’s finger to the last knuckle.
“That’s it, sugar. Let Mama bring out the bitch in you.”
Guy leaned forward on the table, fanning his arms on the countertop, forming the wings of an invisible angel with his breaststroke, as Paula wriggled and writhed her finger in his ass until the wedge of frozen cheesecake slid into his sphincter, widening the orifice until the leather harness was flush against the flabby celebrity chef’s pimply ass.
She massaged his shoulders and whispered a compliment in his saliva-slicked ear. “You give up the balloon knot like a pro.”
“Dick me down!” Guy Fieri shouted, bucking up against the wedge of cheese, taking it like a newly-inducted catamite. “Take me to Flavor Town!”
“You know,” Paula said, casually as she bucked against him, the frozen cheesecake propagator moving on a trajectory smooth as Astroglide on eiderdown, now that Guy’s prostate was pumping like a newly-discovered oil patch.
“That bitch Barbara Walters said my Cookbook for the Lunch Box Set was something I should be ashamed of.” Paula worked her hips as if she was a schoolgirl hoola-hooping on a hot spring day. Her hips swept left and right, a loving orbit that made Guy insensate with pleasure and made it all the more difficult to hear the words she spoke as she sodomized him. “She wanted to know who was I to tell kids to have cheesecake for breakfast, chocolate cake and meat loaf for lunch.”
Paula pulled the wedge of frozen cheesecake from Guy’s ass, and there was a suctioning pop as the gourmet strap-on came free of the now-widened rectum. Guy reached his hands behind his back, pulled his ass cheeks apart in order to make it easier for Paula Deen to reenter him, at the moment of her choosing.
“I say better fat and happy than thin and sad.”
“Please!” Guy moaned. He wriggled his ass from left to right, one-half of an unfulfilled mating ritual, begging for that sweet cheesecake cock to couple with his rectum again.
“‘Please’ what, sugar?”
“Bang me till I have type two diabetes in my asshole!”
“You want that Diabetus?” She said, pronouncing the word like TV spokesman Wilford Brimley.
“I got to have that diabetes in my asshole!”
Paula grabbed a fistful of Guy’s liberty hair spikes, caked with gel and hard as dry spaghetti. She guided his face toward a saucepan of heavy chocolate syrup that was untouched on the countertop until now. She spoke derisively. “That uppity Negress Michelle Obama wants kids doing jumping jacks twenty-four hours a day. Southern kids is meant to be fat.”
She slammed Guy’s face into the saucepan, until it was coated in a thick layer of chocolate. “We do things different down here under the banner of the Stars and Bars.”
Guy attempted to speak, with his face submerged in the chocolate. Ebony bubbles exploded as he struggled to breathe. Paula pulled his head from the pan where he’d just endured the chocolate waterboarding. His face was now covered in thick candied chocolate, and, though the confection was far tastier than burnt cork, she thought this delectable blackface looked a site better than that of the famed minstrel, Al Jolson.
She licked the face of her newly-christened darkie, and as the Food Network‘s Guy Fieri experienced an earthshaking orgasm in his quaking prostate, which put him up in his tiptoes like a ballerina, he knew he was not only Paula Deen’s bitch, but her total and absolute slave now.