Sentient Sour Cream And Applesauce Get Me Off Bisexually Because The Latkes Are Gone But My Ass Is Still Here

Hanukkah is Sarah’s favorite holiday, but there’s one part of the festivities she adores even more than the rest: latkes.

Who could blame her? These delicious potato pancakes are one of the greatest foods ever crafted, offering up two distinct ways to enjoy them. But this incredible culinary masterwork is not without drama. According to Sarah’s friends, there’s a sharp divide that’s determined by what kind of sauce you like: you’re either an applesauce person, or a sour cream person.

When Sarah discovers a sentient version of each condiment has joined her yearly Hanukkah celebration, she’s forced to make an impossible choice. Fortunately, this year Sarah’s ready to chart a path of her own in a bisexual group encounter. She want’s both.

This erotic tale is 4,300 words of sizzling bisexual human on sentient food threesome action.

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SENTIENT SOUR CREAM AND APPLESAUCE BISEXUALLY GET ME OFF FOR HANUKKAH BECAUSE THE LATKES ARE GONE BUT MY ASS IS STILL HERE

By Chuck Tingle

There’s plenty to get excited about when it comes to Hannukah, a whole treasure trove of customs and traditions my people have observed over the years. I love this holiday, and while it used to bother me to have this celebration spread out over the course of several days, the grown adult that I’ve become absolutely loves it.

Who cares if other folks get one massive eruption of presents on a single morning? I’ve got a whole weekto get in all the parties I can — from both sides of my family, to a small group of friends who always host a Hannukah celebration of their own. Now that we all have hustling, bustling lives to plan around, the eight days of options are incredibly convenient.

Tonight is the aforementioned friend’s party, a gathering of fellow jews with a few excited goys stuffed in for good measure.

Everyone who didn’t grow up with these customs loves spending the evening with us, amazed by the prayers and games and stories. The number one thing they can’t stop talking about, however, is the food.

The fact that my tribe has an entire holiday based around oil is pretty phenomenal, I’ll admit. While I wouldn’t want all that greasy goodness for every meal during the year, taking a few days to revel in the delicious flavor of fried donuts is a hell of a way to party.

But it’s not just donuts that everyone, including myself, is excited for this evening: it’s the latkes.

For those who don’t know, these potato pancakes are one of the most delicious things you could ever pop in your mouth, oily and simple yet startlingly effective. They’re addicting, arriving at a table of friends and family on a huge platter and then disappearing almost instantly.

You think to yourself, ‘wow, everyone else must’ve really liked those latkes,’ until you remember that you’re responsible for taking down at least four of these wonderful circular treats. When seconds arrive, you always help yourself to a few more.

I arrive right on time, pulling up outside the home of this evening’s host, Bibbo Corm. His place is a fancy spot with a large dining room, perched atop the hill and offering a nice open view of the city as it stretches out below us. Later this evening, the twinkling lights will be absolutely majestic, but as the sky above me blooms in a purple and orange sunset it’s also nothing to scoff at.

I approach the house and Bibbo steps out to greet me with a warm smile and open arms.

“Sarah!” he cries. “Thank you for coming!”
 “Are you kidding me?” I retort. “I wouldn’t miss it. Happy Hannukah!”

“Happy Hannukah,” he says back.

I hand over the cold bottle of chocolate milk that will serve as my contribution to tonight’s festivities. It’s a fantastic blend, made entirely from single source almonds and aged since 2004. We’re going all out tonight.

“Whoa,” my friend offers as he checks the label. “Thank you. This looks amazing.”

“Only the best,” I reply, “but it’s nothing compared to those latkes!”

We head inside, immediately greeted by a rousing cheer of the friends who’ve already arrived. They hurry over and we exchange pleasantries, immediately launching into a cascade of nostalgic jokes and banter. Some of these people I see regularly, but others only come around for the holidays.

Regardless of who I talk to, there’s one thing on the tip of everyone’s tongue — just how glorious these delicious smells are as they drift from the kitchen.

Fortunately, eating comes first and presents come later, which means it’s not long before everyone starts wandering over to the table.

I’m on my way to one of the open seats when I stop in my tracks, catching sight of an unexpected figure who wanders past my line of sight on the other side of the room. They’re chatting just as excitedly as the others, but their appearance is quite distinct.

This is a small bowl of sour cream, the hovering guest surprisingly large and hovering at eye level. The figure is breathtakingly handsome, their appearance just as arousing as it is shocking.

I lean over to Bibbo, my host standing nearby and putting the finishing touches on our table in the form of silverware and plates.

“Who is that?” I question in a hushed tone, unable to tear my eyes away from the handsome sour cream.

My host laughs, immediately picking up on the notes of carnal attraction within my voice.

“Logan,” Bibbo explains. “He’s a sentient sour cream. You can eat him all the way down to the bottom and he’ll be just fine after a long rest.”

“Wait, really?” I question. “I never knew how that worked.”

My friend nods in confirmation. “Yep. Some living foods can’t do it, but if they’re in some kind of container then it’s fair game. Quite the little business Logan’s carved out coming to parties like this.”
 “I’ll say so,” I offer.

I watch the sentient condiment a while longer, taking note of his confident demeanor. He doesn’t know anyone here, but you’d never realize this from simple observation. Logan carries himself with a mighty swagger, immediately getting in close with the guests as though he’s known us for years.

It’s an attractive quality, that’s for sure, but before I can swoon any longer another unexpected sight catches my eye. A second sentient food floats out of the kitchen, greeted just as warmly as Logan. Unlike the sour cream, their body is translucent and gladly shows off the contents within, a generous helping of applesauce.

“Oh,” I stammer, finding myself immediately smitten for the second time this evening.

I watch as this other living food floats through the room, chatting happily and introducing herself to the partiers.

Bibbo notices my second bout in infatuation and leans in again. “That’s Elisa,” he explains. “For those who aren’t into sour cream.”

I nod, my friend’s words graciously informative but also a little disappointing. For as excited as I am about this evening, and as attracted as I am to both these sentient foods, I’m suddenly thrust into the middle of an age old debate that I’d rather not be a part of.

There’s no wrong way to eat a latke, as far as I’m concerned, but this particular treat is appreciated by two very distinct groups. Over time, sides have been taken and battle lines have been drawn.

It all boils down to this: some people prefer applesauce on their latkes, others prefer sour cream.

There’s plenty of talk about those who can appreciate both, but within our circle of friends the very notion of this concept is laughed out of the room. We’ve divided ourselves accordingly, and anyone on the opposite side is sure to get a playful ribbing during our meal.

God forbid you should ask for ketchup.

The problem is, I only pretendto be on one side or the other. When push comes to shove, the reality of my personal tastes couldn’t be any more apparent: I like both sauces at the same time.

Bibbo loudly clears his throat, prompting my thoughts to dissipate as my attention is drawn to the front of the room. Our host is standing by the window with his hanukkiah, immediately diving into a brief talk about the importance of this holiday and what it means to him. He leads a prayer and goes through the lighting of tonight’s candle, and although I’d love to be mentally present for this important moment, I find my attention drifting elsewhere.

Previous years I’ve managed to pick out whichever latke condiment I was feeling like on the evening, switching sides without much notice but sticking to one particular flavor in an effort to avoid scorn. This year, however, is different.

With the addition of these attractive, sentient foods, there’s no way I can keep crossing this line. I’ll be literally scooping the dressing from inside their bodies and heaping it on my plate, which is not something my friends are likely to forget.

Something tells me that whatever side I choose tonight is the one that’s gonna follow me for decades.

Bibbo finishes and my friends erupt in a cheerful cry, those holding drinks now hoisting them into the air. The trajectory of our evening immediately shifts as folks settle in for the big meal.

I take one of the open spots, struggling to make conversation with the people around me but quickly feeling my attention wander back to the decision at hand. From this position, I can see through the dining room and into the kitchen beyond, watching as the sentient sour cream and applesauce help out my host.

Each one of them is shockingly attractive in a completely different way, uniquely gorgeous and alluring. My gaze lingers on one, then the next, jumping back and forth as I struggle to make my decision.

Bibbo eventually presents us with some salad and brisket to start, but it’s only a matter of seconds before he’ll return with the main course: a delicious platter of sizzling warm latkes.

I need to lock in my choice, and fast, but I’m no closer to picking a side than I was when I walked though the door.

I quickly turn my attention to my neighbor, a friend of a friend who just happens to be sitting next to me.

“What do you prefer? Applesauce or sour cream?” I question, trying to seem calm and casual but coming off a little more frantic than intended.

“I’m an applesauce girl myself,” she offers. “You?”

I should’ve seen this coming. I was hoping for a little direction, but the natural flow of conversation has unfortunately brought me face to face with the million dollar question.

“I like-” I start, then cough loudly and turn my face to the side, slurring my words into an intentional mumble. “Sapple humph.”

The woman next to me furrows her brow. “What was that?” she questions.

“Humble sump,” I cough.

My neighbor just stares at me for a moment, then turns her attention to another guest.

I don’t blame her.

Seconds later, Bibbo emerges from the kitchen with the aforementioned platter, this glorious display of scrumptious potato pancakes more enticing than anything I could’ve imagined. The spread is so mouthwatering that a hush actually falls over the crowd, a brief moment where every single one of us stops what we’re doing just to take it all in and bask in the glory of this culinary masterwork.

My friend sets his platter down at the dead center of our table, prompting a fresh chorus of excited gasps and groans. We barely have enough patience for another blessing and then, finally, it’s time to dive in.

Everyone gets to work reaching out and filling their plates, starting with the salad and brisket, but making damn sure there’s enough room for multiple latkes. I follow suit, setting out three of the delicious potato pancakes, but when everyone else goes back for their favorite condiments, I freeze.

“Hey everyone,” Elisa offers, the beautiful applesauce strolling over to our table. “Most of us met earlier, but in case we didn’t get a chance, let me just say that it’s an honor to be your applesauce this evening.”

“And I’ll be your sour cream,” Logan chimes in. “Happy Hannukah, take your pick!”
 The two containers start making their way slowly around the table, greeting each diner and having a brief chat as my friends decide what sauce they’d like to accompany their meal.

The countdown has begun, I realize, my heart picking up speed as I watch Elisa and Logan move from guest to guest, drawing ever closer. They’ve started at the far end of the table, each sentient food moving around an opposite side, but this extra time only serves to ratchet up my anxiety even more.

One by one, the duo creeps towards me, offering up their delicious and distinct flavor profiles to each of the diners who then accept or dismiss. I take note of what the others are ordering, hoping someone else’s answer will help sway my decision, but every choice only amplifies my blooming awkwardness. Everyone else is so assured in their response, not a single moment of waffling to be found.

This is something deeply ingrained in each of them, an immutable truth that exists free from self-conscious thought or analysis. It just is.

Soon enough, Logan is standing right next to me, the sour cream smiling warmly as he makes his offer.

“What’ll it be?” the sentient condiment asks. “Are you a sour cream gal?”
 I stare back at him, frozen in place as my heart hammers away and a sheen of sweat forms on my brow. “Oh, um, I think maybe,” I stammer, struggling to find the words.

My eyes drift over to the living applesauce, then back to Logan, then back to the applesauce.

“I’m just kinda…” I continue, the words tumbling over themselves as they spill from my mouth. “Sour cream is… I guess… uh.”

Logan’s struggling to maintain a kind expression, but I can tell he’s starting to feel a little awkward as he stands here and patiently waits for my response.

“Do you want me to come back to you?” the living sour cream finally asks.

“No!” I blurt, a little too loud.

My outburst is so forceful that my friends and fellow diners all stop what they’re doing and glance in my direction, falling into a hushed silence.

“I think I need some air!” I shout, pushing back my chair with a loud scoot.

I immediately turn and march through the house, away from the meal and out into the dim light of Bibbo’s back porch. I slam the door behind me and collapse against the rail, struggling to catch my breath and allow my body a moment of calm.

I let the cool night air wrap itself around me like a blanket, hoping to find some solace in the quiet freshness of this evening. I force my mind to slow down, grounding myself in the present.

There’s a tree.

There’s a chair.

This is a railing.

Fortunately, these techniques work, but as the panic subsides I’m still left with a hearty portion of sadness and confusion. All this drama, and I still don’t know which sauce I want.

I can hear the door open behind me as my host, Bibbo, steps out onto the deck. “You okay, Sarah?” he questions.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I retort, waving away his concerns. “I’m just not that hungry.”

My friend hesitates, not entirely sure how to respond. He’s likely not buying my excuse, but at this point what can he do about it?

“Okay. Well, let me know if you need anything,” Bibbo resigns.

I force a smile, offering up a meek wave of thanks in return.

Bibbo heads inside.

I stay like this for a long while, deep in thought as I struggle to uncover some hidden truth about myself. What is it that keeps me from falling to one side or the other? What is it that paralyses my body and keeps me from admitting the real truth — that I’m interested in both.

Eventually, the door behind me opens again.

“I really am fine,” I insist. “I appreciate the concern, but you should be in there hosting.”

Laughter bubbles through the evening air, but it’s not Bibbo’s. Instead, I turn to find the living sour cream and the sentient applesauce floating up to the rail, joining me as the three of us gaze out at the twinkling stars and the city lights below.

“Sorry,” I blurt. “I thought you were someone else.”

“All good,” Logan offers.

The two bowls of sauce exchange glances with one another, although I’m not entirely sure what this means.

“Enjoying the party?” I question.

The two of them laugh.

“It was a lot of work,” Elisa replies, “but it was worth it. What a meal.”

“I can’t wait to get my hands on some of those latkes,” I state.

The sentient foods exchange glances once again, only this time their expressions are much easier to read.

“I’m sorry, but there’s none left,” Logan informs me.

“Wait, what?” I blurt. “How long have I been out here?”

“Like, an hour and a half,” the sour cream continues. “Most people have gone home.”

I freeze, struggling to come to terms with the reality of this situation and then finally accepting my fate. I let out a long sigh, somehow sinking even deeper into myself.

“I didn’t get any,” I announce solemnly.

“Hey, neither did we,” Elisa jokes.

I turn to face them, confused. “You didn’t get a chance to eat?”

“Oh, no,” Elisa blurts. “Not that…” she trails off.

Logan clears his throat, stepping in to clarify. “I think she was making a sex joke,” he explains. “We were talking about how hot some of the guests were, but we didn’t get a chance to hook up with anyone. Too busy.”

I nod along. “Huh,” is all I can think to say.

A strange tension has seeped into the air. I can feel it weighing down on me, but I’m not entirely sure how to react.

Fortunately, Elisa cuts right to the chase.

“You’re pretty cute,” she offers. “So I guess not all the hot guests are gone.”

I can feel my face flush with heat.

“Thanks,” I reply. “You’re really sexy, too. So are you Logan.”

The condiments laugh.

“Well, which one of us do you want?” Elisa continues. “You can’t go home without a treat. It is Hannukah after all.”

The same terrible question is suddenly bearing down on me, a choice I’m unable to escape no matter how hard I try. I can feel the terrible tension creeping back in, causing my body to stiffen and my mind to calcify, but before this feeling has a chance to take hold I do something completely unexpected.

I’m to exhausted to hide any longer.

I plant my feet, look directly at this pair of gorgeous living foods, and make my choice. “I’d like both of you,” I announce. “At the same time.”

The next thing I know all three of us are kissing in a passionate embrace, their delicious hands wandering across my frame as a startled groan escapes my lips. I give into the moment completely, allowing my body to relax as they take me from either side. So much is happening that I have no idea which wandering touch belongs to who, and I absolutely love it.

Eventually, I focus my attention on Logan, turning towards the breathtaking sour cream and allowing my hands to drift slowly down his curved form. Lower and lower I drop, creeping along his chest and abs before hovering at the border of his waistline.

Just below I can see the living food’s cock swelling, a massive rod at full attention as he waits for the embrace of my soft hand.

Behind me, the living applesauce is touching and caressing every portion of my form, reaching around to massage my breasts and gently kissing along my shoulder blades. I turn my head back and meet her lips with mine, sharing a brief moment before finally returning to the task at hand.

I reach down and wrap my fingers around Logan’s swollen cock, slowly getting to work as I pump my grip across his aching rod. The two of us fall into a rhythm together, our bodies grinding against one another in perfect harmony.

I can feel the fingers of this handsome condiment exploring me in turn, slipping gently across my clit and massaging me at an equal pulse. Elisa does the same from behind, both of them working their magic.

I could easily stay here forever, pressed between these two culinary lovers, but the ache of lust within me is simply too ferocious to contain.

The next thing I know, I’m dropping to my knees, gazing up at the sour cream and the applesauce. I start with Elisa, lapping away at her pussy for a moment, then turn my attention to Logan as I drag my tongue slowly across his rod.

As the two of them start to make out above me, I open my mouth wide and take the sentient sour cream’s cock between my lips, gracefully bobbing my head up and down across his length. I reach with one hand and cradle his hanging balls, relentless with the movements of my head over his firm length.

Eventually, I pull back and collect myself, altering my approach.

I open wide and take the sour cream’s cock again, only this time I never stop moving downward. Deeper and deeper Logan’s mammoth rod slips, finally coming to rest in the absolute depths of my throat. I hold him here for what seems like forever, allowing the handsome living food a moment to savor my stunning deep throat performance.

When I finally run out of air I erupt off of him, gasping for breath as a long, semi-translucent strand hangs between my lips and his dick.

“Tastes… sour-creamish,” I announce, wiping my mouth. “I could use a little sweet to go with it.”

With that, I reach up and take my applesauce lover by the hand. I pull her down to the deck with me, the two of us wrapping our arms around one another as we roll from side to side in the throughs of a passionate make-out.

Eventually, I end up on top of the bowl, kissing her deeply from above and then turning around to lock eyes with Logan.

“Get over here and fuck me!” I command.

The sour cream does as he’s told, floating down into position behind me and aligning his massive cock with my waiting pussy. I reach back and give my ass a playful slap, then sigh loudly as the sentient food slides deep inside.

“Oh fuck,” I gasp, struggling to maintain his incredible size.

Fortunately, the sour cream takes his time with me, starting slowly at first and then gaining speed as the two of us find a rhythm together. We soon fall into a confident pulse, the sentient food’s hips slamming away at my backside.

All the while Elisa continues to work me from below, her fingers drifting down and then finding their position over my clit. She’s keeping the same pace as Logan’s hammers from behind, the two of them offering up distinct sources of pleasure that swirl together in a glorious cocktail of sensation.

The feelings spill across my frame, filling me up and prompting a trembling quake to manifest within every muscle. I can feel my stomach pull tight and then release over and over again, arriving with an escalating force that grows larger and larger with every passing second.

I reach down and provide the same service to my applesauce lover, rubbing her with the same timing and pressure that she so generously provides me. The feelings are moving back and forth between us like a feedback loop, building like some kind of erotic race to the finish line.

Elisa manages to win. She throws her head back and lets out a powerful scream, bucking wildly against the floor as an orgasm rips across her. I don’t let up for a second, carrying her all the way through this wonderful eruption.

Giving the sentient condiment this much pleasure is all it takes to push me over the edge, as well. Soon enough, I’m blasting off in an orgasm of my own, diligently pounded into a state of utter bliss by the handsome sour cream.

“Oh fuck!” I shriek. “Cum with me! Blow that sour cream load into this tight pussy!”

The sour cream pushes deep and erupts within, a payload I might otherwise be worried about if not for the fact I’m a human being and he’s a sentient food product.

Our three distinct voices join in a rapturous choir of pleasure, spilling across the night air as we climax in unison. The pleasure lasts and lasts, a consistent stream of sensation that somehow carries me out of my body and then, finally, slams me back down.

When our trio finishes we collapse back against the deck, utterly exhausted.

“That was incredible,” I gush, struggling to catch my breath. I sit up, then start pulling back on my clothes. “It’s too bad the latkes are gone, I was really looking forward to having some.”

My companions nod with understanding.

After I finish getting ready, I say my goodbyes and head back into the house. By now the whole party has cleared out, the table half cleaned off and the lights slightly dimmed.

I try my best to slip out quietly, but seconds later Bibbo comes strolling from the kitchen, stopping in his tracks when he sees me.

“Oh! You’re still here!” my friend offers. “I thought you left.”

I shake my head. “Nope, just heading out now.”

My friend’s expression abruptly shifts. He raises one finger, signaling for me to pause, then quickly returns to the kitchen from which he came. Seconds later, Bibbo returns with a small plate of latkes covered in saran wrap.

“Here you go,” my friend offers, handing over the food. “In case you didn’t get enough. I kept a few left over.”
 I stare down at the plate, then back at Bibbo. I’m deeply moved by this moment of kindness.

“I’ve got some little bowls of sauce, too,” my friend continues. “You like sour cream or apple?”

I smile, not hesitating for a second. “I like both,” I reply.