It all started very innocently. Like a million other people, Rose fell for the Great U.K. Bake-Show. She would watch with her mom and dad, root for her favorites, and try baking on the weekends, just like so many others. Her parents – both immigrants from India – supported Rose’s newfound passion. They left her alone all day on Saturdays, as her father saw patients and her mother managed the practice, so for Rose to have a wholesome hobby that kept her off social media, seemed heaven-sent. She would stream the Bake Show on the kitchen TV as she set about teaching herself how to make bread, cookies, and cakes. Four or five hours would fly by and she would greet her parents with delightful goodies when they returned home.
Things began to evolve when Rose turned sixteen. Her hormones were raging, the way they do for sixteen-year-old girls. She had no outlet. Her parents were very conservative, so dating was out of the question. And being Indian in rural Georgia was not exactly a ticket to a huge social circle, anyway. She was lonely. And horny.
The Bake Show host, Stephen London, began to stir something within her. Those brilliant blue eyes. The handsome face. The commanding – even dominant – presence. Without her realizing, the Bake Show became vaguely erotic for her. She would stream the show and bake, as before, but everything about those late mornings and afternoons became sensual, and eventually, sexual. The feel of the dough in her hands. Licking batter from the mixer blades, or icing from a spatula. Holding the firm curved handle of a whisk. The squishy feel of the silicone floor pads on her bare feet. The sensation of the apron bib rubbing against her breasts, the grip of the apron ribbon around her waist.
All these things somehow merged with the feelings that were stirring under her surface, crystalized in a teen’s adoration of the handsome host. Staring at Stephen while baking began to induce a physical passion that she would inevitably have to resolve with her hand, pillow, or bedpost. Rose began to make sure that she finished her baking and cleaned the kitchen well in advance of her parent’s return home, so that she had plenty of time to rub a few out without being discovered.
When Rose finally connected the dots of what was inducing her passion, she embraced it. She would bake while wearing only an apron, imagining that Stephen was there with her. She would stroke her backside, fondle her breasts, and pinch her nipples when Stephen was on screen. She would untie the top of the apron and dab her large brown breasts with buttercream, and then raise them to her mouth to lick it off, imagining her outstretched tongue was Stephen’s. She would spank herself with a wooden spoon, pretending that Stephen was playfully calling her a “naughty girl.” And she would take the marble rolling pin out of the fridge, and sitting atop the counter, grind herself to orgasm against the cool, hard rod as she stared closely into the TV screen.
Rose was destined for a career in medicine, science or engineering. Her college entrance exam scores were in the 99th percentile, and her parents proudly led her on tours to the most prestigious universities. And then Rose, nervously, told her parents that she wanted to be a baker. They both flew into a rage and Rose was driven to tears. They eventually calmed down. Mom and Dad knew in their hearts that if Rose really understood what a baker’s life was like, she would abandon this silly notion and willingly return to her proper path.
They made a deal with her: Work as a baker, full time, in the summer between junior and senior year, and if after that she was still certain, they would send her to culinary school instead of Harvard. And so, beginning in June, Rose would rise at midnight every morning and drive ninety minutes to another, larger town, where she worked for an independent baker who supplied many of the best restaurants in Atlanta.
This guy was no Stephen London. A stern, dark-haired, dark-eyed Frenchman, Girard was deeply resentful that he had somehow wound up in suburban Georgia, but was nevertheless committed to his vocation. His wife, a pretty but bitchy southern belle, had worked alongside him for several years, but tired of the hours. That’s why Rose got the job. He was not an ugly man, and may have even been handsome for all she knew, but it was hard to tell given the hours of the day that Rose saw him. His face was perpetually ill-shaven, his hair stuck out wildly from his floppy chef’s cap, and his body was hidden by his oversized chef’s jacket and checkered pants. He rarely if ever smiled, his face seemingly frozen in a perpetual grimace of concentration.
Rose didn’t understand how he did it. Georgia was hot under the best of circumstances, and amidst the many ovens and burners of the long L-shaped kitchen where they worked side by side, it was an inferno. She wore shorts and scoop-necked t-shirts under an apron, and she opted for her hair pulled up and under a hairnet, rather than a chef’s cap. Anything that trapped heat had to be done away with.
Despite the temperature, and Girard’s crusty countenance, Rose adored the work. She sang and hummed as she baked, to Girard’s apparent irritation, and she smiled constantly, she was so pleased to be doing what she loved. And Rose also found that it didn’t require Stephen London to be on the telly for her to get turned on by baking. The fetishistic delights continued. Kneading dough still felt sexy. Licking icing off even a plastic gloved hand was sensual. And when she began to feel Girard’s eyes on her, she got even more turned on. She liked his attention. A lot. His face had grown on her, and she now found him quite handsome. To her own surprise, Rose broke out of her shell a bit and attempted to flirt with the grouch, she liked his attention so much.
His attraction for Rose snuck up on Girard. When he interviewed her he saw her pretty round Indian face, big brown eyes, and reluctant but brilliant smile, but mostly he saw her earnestness and passion for the work. To the extent that he noticed her body she seemed, well, a bit chubby. He had a lovely, skinny blonde wife. He was after a talented, hard worker, not someone to fuck. But the more Girard was around Rose, the more she invaded his consciousness. Her smile was infectious. Her singing, at first irritating, became endearing. And sometimes, she seemed to actually flirt with him: Making an elaborate show of licking her fingers; rubbing against him as they passed in the narrow aisle way; bending over to give a prolonged view of her substantial butt or her cleavage.
She was a big girl, for sure, but delightfully so. Her exposed brown legs were toned and smooth. The large globes of her ass, barely encased in blue jean cut-offs, were round and firm. When it got really hot, Rose would set her apron aside and tie up the bottom of her shirt to expose her midriff. Her belly would peak out with a gentle curve, her enticing “inny” belly button catching his eye. Her waist was astonishingly small, compared to her top and bottom. He sometimes gently grasped her there, to prevent a collision. Increasingly, she seemed to create those collisions. More than once, Girard found himself staring at the down of tiny wispy hairs that ran along her spine toward the curve of her ass, and he would have to shake himself from the visual fantasy of dragging his tongue along that sexy piping.
Usually, Rose and Girard wrapped baking by five a.m. They would carefully pack the cakes and pastries just in time for the arrival of the delivery truck driver, whereupon Rose would clean up, while Girard checked supplies and worked on the books. One night, the driver called in sick. Girard would have to make the run himself and she would have to do the inventory check on top of the washing up. He thanked Rose profusely, giving her the rarest of smiles and a hug complete with a European double kiss as he raced to the truck. He found himself thinking of the feeling of her breasts pressed against him, the smell of her hair, and the softness of the skin of her lower back as he drove out of the parking lot.
Rose had the place to herself. There was no rush. Girard would not be back for at least an hour and a half. She stared at the baking utensils in the pegboard against the wall. She thought of Girard’s smile and his warm brown eyes and the feel of his rough cheek against her smooth one. She tasted the almond cream from the last batch of pastry, then tested how far she could fit the spoon into her mouth without gagging. She thought of how she used to spend her Saturdays, naked under an apron and playing with herself in the kitchen.
Rose untied her apron, pulled her t-shirt over her head, and dropped her cut-offs. She’d taken to wearing fancy underwear at some point over the summer, enjoying a bit of secret naughtiness that her fantasy version of Stephen London might have enjoyed. She pranced around in her sexy white lace thong and demi bra. She imagined that her very unsexy red Crocs were instead high heeled Louboutins. She tossed her hairnet and pulled her long hair free of its bun. She stared at herself in the corner safety mirror. I am pretty fucking sexy, she thought to herself, as she pinched a nipple and ran a hand into the lace of her panties.
Girard got a quarter of the way to Atlanta when he remembered he hadn’t brought the key codes he needed to drop off the goods. He wouldn’t be able to get into half of the restaurants to complete the deliveries.
“Merde,” he shouted to himself as he turned around and headed back to the bakery.
When he walked in he expected to see Rose standing at the stainless steel sink, up to her elbows in soap bubbles. She was not. But she was there somewhere, because he heard odd sounds coming from the other side of the bakery. He peaked around the corner to find Rose sprawled out on one of the large butcher block prep tables. Her shorts, t-shirt, underwear and Crocs were strewn randomly on the white tile floor. Rose was naked. Spectacularly, naked. Her large breasts, capped by dark, erect nipples, jiggled slightly. Her long black hair cascaded over the side of the table. Her pretty brown legs were spread wide and pulled up toward her chest, her cute arched feet contracted into fists She was moaning, loudly.
Girard suppressed a shout and crept closer, aware that he had become quite hard at the sight of the young, thick beauty in this state. Within a few additional steps, Girard, already shocked, was flabbergasted as he was able to see the source of Rose’s pleasure. She was thrusting the thick plastic handle of a large whisk into her vagina while simultaneously spanking her clit with the flat end of a latex cake spatula.
“Fuck yes! Fuck yes! Fuck me, Stephen. Fuck me!” Rose moaned, her eyes clenched shut tightly as she arched in pleasure.
Who the hell was Stephen? Girard wondered.
Girard decided the best thing to do was to get the hell out of there, but as he turned suddenly, his shoulder knocked a large aluminum pan hanging from a hook, which in turn knocked two or three other pans down the line. He looked back to meet Rose’s shocked eyes.
“Argh!” Rose screamed as she sat up on the table and attempted to cover herself. The suddenly abandoned large whisk, complete with moistened handle, rolled off the table and fell to the floor with a metallic bounce. They stared at one another for seconds that felt like hours. At last, Girard broke into a sweet smile. Rose returned it. And fueled by the lust that only a teenage girl possesses, she found the courage to seductively drop her hands and open her legs. She then leaned back against the stainless steel backsplash with a provocative stare.
“Um, sorry Girard. It’s a long story. Want to fuck me?”
Girard, was, after all, French, and that was all the invitation he needed. He strode over to the thick wanton teen and smothered her with his mouth. Those full lips, and fuller breasts, her musky armpits, that cute poochy tummy, the deep crevice of her belly button, the dark twists and rich aroma of her thick curly down, her soft, wet, sweet-briny center, the large clitoris, standing up, begging for his tongue.
“Oh Jesus, fuck …” Rose managed to say before deteriorating into nothing more than moans and whimpers.
He finished between her breasts, pressed together like two large pastry bags wrapped around his uncircumcised cock.
“Oh my god,” he groaned as he covered her perfect brown boobs.
Rose flashed a mischievous smile and lapped up the gobs of white goo.
“Mmmmm … Even better than buttercream.”
