THE CAKE
Ingrid Luna
He’ll be here soon. The kitchen is growing warm, the mingling vanilla and sugar fill it up with a comforting smell. He loves the smell of vanilla, he has told me. I don’t know why. Probably reminds him of his mother or something, I’m sure, as per usual. I crack the oven door carefully and peek inside. The cake is rising gorgeously, a soft golden pillow of moist sweetness. I have a momentary worry that it won’t be perfect, but I calm myself quickly. It will be delicious. I’m a damn good baker. Slowly, I insert a toothpick into the heart of it. It comes out cleanly with just a few crumbs clinging. I lick them off.
“Done!” I exclaim happily, and can’t resist a little victory dance there in the kitchen. The cake goes onto the smooth wooden cutting board to cool, and I go into the bedroom to change.
Off comes the battered Slayer shirt I live in when I’m not expecting company. I kick my jeans into a pile in the corner and strip off my ratty black underwear. I start the shower and rifle through my closet while the water heats up. The housedress perhaps? No, I wore that last time he visited. The halter dress with the large circle skirt isn’t quite right. I remember he said something about an aversion to seersucker. Finally, I find the lavender silk dress I snapped up at my favorite vintage shop last month. I had completely forgotten about it, and it hung dejected on its velvet hanger.
“Let’s see what he thinks of you,” I coo, twirling it around in front of me.
Fifteen minutes later I stand in front of my full-length mirror, admiring my transformation. My usually messy mane tamed into red fox curls coiled gently above the smooth white skin of my forehead, the lavender dress clinging to every curve of my admittedly ample bust before nipping in dramatically at the waist and then exploding in a full skirt just below my knees. I have a pretty marvelous hourglass shape naturally, but today it seems almost cruel, really, thanks to the corset I have struggled into. I am all dangerous racetrack curves. I balance the effect of all of this with a pale lip and nude stockings. He likes me to be a tad subtle. A subdued, accidental sexiness.
I pout into the mirror, practicing wholesome and coy. It’s a challenge for me, to be honest.
Back in the kitchen, the cake is ready to be iced. Softened butter works its magic with sugar and a little cream. I’m going to make a butterscotch icing. It’s my favorite. The rest of the ingredients go into the mixing bowl where the beaters work away at them—that magical kitchen alchemy I love. Soon the frosting is standing up in fluffy peaks and I spoon it out onto my cake in great creamy globs, smoothing it expertly with a broad knife. It’s immaculate, my cake. Homey and simple but exquisitely executed. Of course. That’s one of the reasons he keeps coming back.
By the time he arrives, I am perfumed and the kitchen is spotlessly clean. A gin gimlet perspires gently in my hand, soft jazz is twinkling softly through the house and the cake is resting on white china on the sturdy kitchen table.
“Darling!” I exclaim, looping my arms around his neck and kissing him gently on the cheek. “You’re back! I’m so happy to see you!”
“Hello, lovely,” he says, and takes my shoulders in his hands, turning me around gently. “You look perfect. How beautiful. Is this a new dress?”
I manage a tiny shy smile, averting my eyes. “Yes. Do you like it? It isn’t…too tight?” I run my hands over my narrow rib cage, his eyes following their movement. For a moment, there is nothing but pure lust in his eyes. He coughs slightly and looks a little embarrassed.
“It smells wonderful in here!”
“Oh yes! I nearly forgot! I made you a cake! Here, my dear, let me take your jacket.”
As I pull it off of his large shoulders, I can’t help but admire him. I’ve never asked his exact age, but I imagine him to be in his early fifties. He is nicely muscled, though, and everything about him implies that this is a man who takes care of himself and is used to getting his way. His shoes are always the finest leather, his suits obviously bespoke. I have never seen a stray hair, a wrinkle.
He rolls up his sleeves, exposing a watch that probably cost twice what my car did, and a hairy, muscular forearm.
“Shall we then?”
He takes my arm and leads me into the kitchen.
“Oh, you’ve truly outdone yourself, Charlotte. This is a thing of beauty for sure,” he says, eyeing the cake like a goldsmith, as he sits at the simple wooden chair I have pulled out for him. I lean over his shoulder so that he can get a noseful of my perfume, and breathe into his ear, “I made it especially for you. I slaved away all afternoon and do you know what I was thinking about, the whole time?”
“I can guess.”
“Well, go on then,” I say, smiling sweetly.
“Actually, on second thought. Maybe you should show me. Are you ready, my turtle dove?”
“If you like.”
He offers me his hand and I take it delicately. One dainty step up after another and then I am perched on the table in front of him. I can feel him admiring the aristocratic turn of my ankle, the lovely hue of my tasteful heel.
“Remove your tie,” I instruct him.
I make a noose at each end, slide the rich fabric over one wrist and then the other, tying the ends securely to the chair arms. He can’t move his hands an inch. I have him exactly where I want him.
The cake sits smugly between my shoes as I ruck my skirt up to my waist and unsnap the crotch of my apricot silk panties. I tuck them up into my garter, send him a shy little wink and slowly squat down until the lips of my shaved pussy are nearly touching the flawless frosting. I’m not turned on yet. There is just the faintest tingle in my belly, but he is captivated. He moves closer toward me, getting an eyeful as I ease ever closer to the buttercream.
Then, I simply sit.
The frosting engulfs my pussy and ass. I feel it gushing up under my skirt, coating my inner lips. The crack of my ass is speckled with frosting. My clit is coated with butterscotch and chunks of still-warm cake are trying to work their way inside me. I grind down on it, using my fingers to spread it over my mound, massaging frosting into the pale soft skin at the top of my thighs. I run a finger through the ruined cake and spread it across my labia, then bring the finger to my mouth.
“Mmmmmmm…” I breathe, tasting the perfect combination of frosting, moist cake and pussy. I hold out my finger to him. “Would you like to try it?” He can’t speak. I watch as this powerful, elegant man becomes as weak as a kitten with desire. I want to giggle. I feel a rush of heat between my legs. He nods, opening his mouth just a little, leaning toward the morsel I offer.
“Uh-uh.” Pop goes the finger into my mouth. “No cake for you. You’ve been a very bad boy.”
He whimpers slightly, neck still craned toward me, his tongue slightly between his teeth. He looks ridiculous. He shakes his head slightly.
“No?” I raise a sculpted eyebrow at him. “No? You’ve been a good boy? I don’t think so. You’ve been thinking all kinds of naughty, terrible things. Haven’t you?”
He shakes his head, stronger this time.
This is starting to get fun. I continue, “You want me to believe you are a good boy, worthy of this delicious confection? You want me to let you have some?”
I grab a handful of cake from between my legs.
“You disgusting, weak little pervert. You terrible, naughty thing. You speck of a man.”
His cock is growing hard, I can see the shape of it clearly outlined through the fine fabric of his slacks.
I hold the cake an inch from his trembling lips and then snatch it back.
“I don’t think you really want it,” I scold, and drop the chunk of cake onto the floor.
“Oh I do! I do want it! I need it! Please, please let me have some! I’ll be good! Just a taste!” he whines. He’s practically weeping.
I slide my legs over his shoulders, balancing myself on the edge of the table with one hand, and grab the back of his head.
“You make me want to puke,” I snarl. My pussy is a foot away from him. He can hardly contain himself as he eyes my rosy snatch through the buttercream. “You are the most vile, pathetic creature. You aren’t worthy of one bite of this cake I made. But you know what? I’m going to let you have a little taste because I am feeling very very generous today.”
I pull his head roughly into me. He begins to eat. His tongue laps up the frosting, his lips smack at my cunt.
“Oh…that’s better. That’s what nice boys do. Do you like that? Does it taste good?”
He says something but it’s impossible to understand. His mouth is full of cake and cream and me.
“You’re doing a very good job down there. I’m going to let you have some more.”
I smear another gob of cake onto my pussy and he continues to work at me. He eats ravenously, sucking at my clit and sliding his tongue inside me, trying to get every last crumb. His mouth seems to be everywhere. I’m going to come soon. I cling to his hair, pressing his face into my slit.
“That’s a good boy. Eat your cake. Eat it. I want to be cleaner than clean when you’re done. If I find even a trace of icing down there I’m going to punish you!”
He slurps at me, running his tongue down the crack of my ass and expertly nibbling and licking his way back to my clit.
My orgasm rips through me like an electric shock. Letting go of his head, I fall back on the table and gasp as it floods through me. He leans forward, straining against his bonds, still hungry for me.
I can’t help it. I start to giggle. His regal face is messy with desire and frosting.
“Oh, look at you. Let me get a napkin.” I climb down from the table and untie him. He rubs his sore wrists as I arrange my skirt.
My kitchen is a wreck. Cake is everywhere. I hand him the napkin, and he wipes his face.
He is composed again though there is a small, wet stain near his zipper. I wonder if he has a wife, and if she’ll notice.
“Thank you, Charlotte,” he says. “Same time next week?”