by Sylvie Chambers
(11/18/09)

Part I: An Affection of Confections

All day I considered my order, and finally dialed the bakery around five p.m..

The newest hire answered in her sugary voice.

"I want the baker," I said.

"We all do," she said, her smirk dribbling like syrup across the line.

"Aha," my baker picked up the phone and said, draped in his faux-French accent, "Are we ready to order, my sweet?"

"Oui monsieur. A cinnamon roll. Don't skimp the frosting."

"Ah, zee lady has not indulged in quite a while," the baker answered, "in zee cinnamon rolls."

"I remember them too well from my childhood."

"Your father made them, perhaps?"

"We bought them from the market, prepackaged."

"A factory cannot make a confection," my baker protested.

"I used to unwrap them with my tongue."

"Ah..." he considered, "Perhaps this is another matter. And what else would the lady order?"

"Perhaps a cherry tart?"

"Ah, my love, I don't know how ripe and tender is the fruit today."

I bit my lip with a smile, imagining him slapping the round ass of the girl in tight jeans, her sultry pout twisting to a seductive grin in return.

"Then surprise me."

"Yes my love," said the baker.

When he arrived home in the evening, he had removed the French accent. "Are the children in bed?"

"Oui," I answered.

"Doors closed?"

"They're asleep," I assured him.

"Then you're ready for a delicious night," he said, lifting my shirt up. He unclasped my brassiere and licked each nipple lightly. With his thick hands, he undressed me and dropped each piece of my clothing on the kitchen floor. "Climb on the table," he told me, and then he tied me spread-eagle, face up across the table with red nylon rope.

As the rope pressed against my thighs and around my breasts, I strained against it. Already I felt delicious. My husband chuckled and tugged at the rope between my legs, rubbing it lightly against my clit.

I sighed. "Fuck me."

"My hostess," he said, "I will fulfill each of your orders in turn. First, your cinnamon roll."

From his pink pastry box, he pulled out the heavy scent of frosting and cinnamon, and unwrapped the dough into my mouth slowly. I chewed and swallowed and struggled against my bonds, wishing I could wipe my face when the frosting dribbled down my cheek and overwhelmed me.

"You asked for the frosting," my baker whispered, his eyes bright. "It's too late to change your order."

"Lick it off," I begged.

"Perhaps I'll feed you a croissant."

"With frosting is the only way your hideous croissants will be edible," I mumbled around the cinnamon roll he was still feeding me.

"Five years of marriage and you will not deign to consume a croissant," he said, in mock offense. "You are not fit to be a baker's wife." As punishment, he dropped the entire center of the cinnamon roll in my mouth.

I groaned for a while around the syrup and dough.

My baker washed my feet in vanilla-scented water. "Delicate," he mused at my toes, "as apple slices in a light strudel."

He grinned and squeezed water over my thighs, my stomach, and my breasts, as if spreading frosting over a cake. It dribbled erotically down my sides.

I arched my back, a mess of cinnamon and sugar made stickier with the vanilla concoction. When I felt myself sliding against the table I suspected the scented water contained some kind of oil. I wanted to rub my thighs together and rub my sticky cunt roughly against the table's leg. I licked my lips.

"Fuck me, baker," I asked him again.

"My love, you forget the pastries." He lifted my head to offer me a drink of water -- sweet relief! Then he kissed me, licking the stickiness off my mouth, nibbling my lips and my chin and my neck.

"Tell me you want more," he said, and fed me a miniature chocolate-covered éclair.

I moaned. My mouth was tingling, growing numb with sugar, but I licked out the filling and swallowed the pastry.

"Death by pastry," I mumbled.

"Au contraire," laughed my baker, "your squirming indicates you are quite lively tonight."

"Set me free of your sugary wrath."

"And what will you offer in exchange?"

"Sticky buns?"

"A fair bargain, pastry for pastry." He tied me kneeling on the kitchen chair, with my face to the backrest and my ass in the air. I could feel the oil dripping off my breasts and sliding down my legs.

The rope gripped my wrists to the edge of the chair, and I sighed, "Yes." I heard him unzip his pants. His baker's hat flew by my ear, landing on the tile in a floury pile. I felt flour drift onto my back. His nails slid down my back, then down my ass crack, like he was cutting perforations in a crust.

He gripped my right wrist on the chair with his palm. He kneaded my ass and I felt him rising like yeasted dough against my leg. He rubbed his warm dick against me, preheating. Then he slid it between my legs. I'd had my sugar rush, and here was the meat. I bit my lip and moaned as he slapped his dick against my cunt and rubbed the hood of my clit aside.

"Warm oven?" he breathed in my ear.

"Four hundred degrees Fahrenheit."

He bit my earlobe and sunk himself in me. He's hung like a German sausage, but I was slick as a buttered pan, and he slid so deep inside I could feel his heavy balls slapping my thighs. "Fuck me, baker," I groaned, "hot and sweet. Yes."

The puns stopped for about five minutes of good old-fashioned thrusting. The chair scraped on the floor.

I imagined a baker's wife in medieval times, a hefty woman pressed against the side of the stone oven, her skirts above her waist, in the style of a comic vintage drawing.

He reached under me and rubbed my nipples, squeezing them together and rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers, until I was biting at the rope on my wrists. The chair threatened to tip over, and he grabbed my hips with his palms and sucked at my neck.

"Cream filling?" he grunted in my ear.

I groaned, and we came together.

When the sugary mess of the kitchen was cleaned up, we showered the frosting off our bodies. The children were still coated in sugarplum dreams when we checked on them.

Lying in bed, my baker twisted his fingers through my hair. "And what confections would please you tomorrow?" he asked.

Part II: Raspberry Tart

My husband came home from the bakery one evening with a devilish grin on his face. I was surprised to see his arms empty of the usual pink pastry box. "Today," he said, "a special order. Just now in season." He kissed me and danced me around the kitchen until I was giggling hysterically.

"Ready?" he asked.

"What do you have in mind?" I laughed.

"Ah," he said. "A bit of raspberry tart, new recipe."

I raised my eyebrows.

"I'll be right back," he winked at me.

I paced around the kitchen, and then he was back at the door. "Here to serve you tonight," he announced, "Anita, my pastry assistant."

Anita was the new girl who worked the register. She had a heavy Spanish accent and I wasn't used to her sultry Latin smile. This evening she was wearing flour-covered black capris and the bakery T-shirt. She'd cut the shirt down the front to make room for her large breasts, and even her cleavage was dusted with flour.

"Welcome, Anita," I said.

"She is here tonight for zee dinner," he said, slipping on his awful French accent and grinning back.

Anita grinned at me, "Es verdad. You speak Spanish, no?"

"Un poquito," I said, stumbling over the word and turning red with embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I haven't made anything for dinner tonight." I opened a cabinet and frowned at its contents. "I'm sure I can come up with something."

"No, no," my husband said in a low voice, coming up behind me and putting his hands on my waist. "You misunderstand. Anita has volunteered to be zee dinner." He nibbled on my ear, and his hands strayed across my ass.

"Oh?" I turned around and looked at the girl.

She leaned on the counter, and her cleavage hung in front of my face. She wore her sultry expression. "I'm finger-lickin' good," she said. She took a step back, and pulled off her shirt. "Try me."

Her bra was white as flour, lacy and sheer. My eyes must have widened, and my mouth dropped. I hadn't been with a woman in years, and my husband and I were not accustomed to sharing each other. I glanced at him, and he smiled. He beckoned me around the counter, then slipped off into the shadows. The floured Latin beauty was stripping off her bra now.

"Please," I said, "allow me." I slid the straps down her arms, then unhooked her pants and pulled them down her shapely legs. As she stepped out of her clothing, I ran my hands across her tight stomach and smelled the flour on her breasts. Her nipples were small and dark like olives, and they hardened as I breathed on them.

"Taste them," Anita said. She ran her hands down my neck and arms, and I took one in my mouth and nibbled it.

"Nice appetizer," I said, and then bit the other. She laughed.

I stood up and took her raspberry lips in my mouth, sucking and nibbling on them, and flicking my tongue around. Her tongue met mine, playing.

"Good kisser," she mumbled appreciatively.

My husband returned dressed in a waiter's outfit and carrying a serving tray. "How is the appetizer?" he asked.

"Lovely," I said. I looked into Anita's eyes. I hadn't stopped to look at their color before, but they were a dark brown, like a hazelnut paste.

"May I offer the ladies some wine?" It was a bottle of raspberry wine he was holding out.

"Lovely," I repeated. I felt a little dumb with the surprise and all the new flavors.

He uncorked the bottle. "We shall let it air a bit. And for the main course, might I offer this?" He held up a coil of purple cotton rope. Anita threw a smile my way, then held out her hands to him. He led her over to the table.

"These must come off," he said, grazing the top of her lace panties with his finger. "May I?"

"Por favor," she said, "please." He slid them off her gently as I watched. Even her ass was well-toned.

Then he hoisted her onto the table and tied her ankles to the table legs, spreading her legs out, positioning her pussy over the head of the table. I felt my own cunt grow wet, watching how deftly he moved and how she submitted her soft skin to his rough palms. I slowly removed my own clothing, touching myself lightly.

Then the baker turned to me and bowed. "Madam," he said. "The first course is served." He poured a glass of wine and offered it to me. "Buen apetito."

I poured some on each of the girl's nipples, then took one in my mouth fully and sucked it, while I rubbed the other. The wine was sweet and rich. Her nipples were thick and supple, ridged under my tongue.

Her legs strained on the ropes and grazed my hips, and I leaned over between her legs, rubbing at her pussy with my own fuzzy crotch. While I licked her breasts clean, I reached one hand down and felt her cunt. It was hairy, like my own, and her lips were large and full. She started to moan.

Then I stepped back, and she furrowed her forehead. "Please," she mumbled, gazing down at me.

"Yes," I answered. I poured a sip from the wine glass in her mouth. I poured another sip that dribbled down onto her neck, and sucked it off.

I kissed her mouth again and felt her moan under me. Then I poured the wine across her sternum and her belly, and I sucked at her body. Her flesh was soft, and she loved it as I covered every inch of her skin. She moaned, light and high pitched, as I slowly moved my mouth down toward her pussy, licking circles around her belly, then sliding my tongue down her pelvis.

I bit at her hairy mound and her thighs. Her soft skin gave way under my mouth, and it took very little pressure to make her react. I was getting wet, just listening to her. When I finally planted my mouth around her cunt, she groaned, a full and rich throaty tone.

I sucked at her clitoris, nibbled it, rubbed the flat of my tongue against it, and then as she pushed toward me I hardened my tongue and flicked the small nub, first slowly, then faster and faster until she couldn't stop moaning with each breath.

She tasted creamy, just slightly sour like a good yogurt, and I shoved the length of my tongue inside her, moving my whole face back and forth to fuck her.

I caressed her thighs with my hands and pressed my face into her cunt, as she came in shrieking moans. "Fuck, yes. Si si si."

When she quieted, I stood up to look at her. I rubbed her clitoris with just one finger, and she sighed against it, shutting her eyes.

"Anita, you're right," I said. "Delicious."

She smiled and moaned in approval.

I pinched her nipple, and she groaned again "Ready for something more filling?" I asked.

She moaned in assent.

From the silver tray I picked up a hefty, curvy crook-necked squash. I walked back toward her without letting her see it, and I bent down to rub her legs. I nibbled her toes and ran the cool vegetable up her legs, toward her pussy.

"Que es?" she asked.

"Close your eyes," I told her. I climbed up on the table behind her head and sat above her. I held the squash near my cunt, like a semi-erect cock, hanging toward her mouth. From my position, I could still see most of her face and she could see my cunt.

"Open la boca," I directed her. She opened her mouth, and licked the squash with her long tongue. I pushed it in until she was sucking it. She wrapped her full red lips around it, and I rubbed the other side against myself. I was already wet, and it didn't take much to make me come.

"Gracias," I told her, as I gently lifted the vegetable from her mouth.

Then I climbed down, and ran the squash down her neck, across her erect nipples, and toward her cunt. She started moaning again as I rubbed the small head against her clitoris and hooked it inside her, rubbing circles until I felt her push against it. I started thrusting inside her, faster. She groaned and rocked as I twisted the head around to hit her G-spot.

"Si si si," she called. "Aiii, Mujer. "

When she came, the squash was covered in a lovely white cream, paler than her skin.

I climbed back on the table as she finished moaning, straddling her hips with mine. I kissed her and began to fuck myself with the squash above her, leaning on my knees and one hand and looking at her body, the full breasts and beautiful skin. She watched me with a sort of awe as I moaned and squirmed, and I kissed her mouth deeply as I came.

When I was spent, I dropped on top of her. My husband came out and untied her, without disturbing us, and she wrapped her arms around me.

"You like the Mexican pastry?" she asked playfully.

"Si," I laughed.

"I love to eat and to fuck," she said, closing her eyes. "Together, they are incredible."

"Ah, my dumpling," I said, imitating the baker's voice, "I hope you've saved room for dessert."

As I kissed her, I swear she did taste of raspberries.

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