I was up to my elbows in cake batter when Betty came home. I could hear her clunking around the hall, kicking off her boots, yelling at the dog to bring her fucking brolly back. She was in a temper alright, and I hoped to god that the chaos I’d caused in the kitchen would be outweighed by the fact that I was doing something special for her.
The kitchen door clattered off the Welsh dresser, setting all the fine china in there to a rattle, but Betty never said a thing. I froze, bent at a 90 degree angle, cake tin poised on the middle shelf of the oven. Was she going to rip me a new one? I was wearing a pinny, for fucks sake, surely that counted for something?
Breathing shakily, I slipped the cake home and closed the oven door, straightening my spine and turning slowly. I’m not ashamed to say I was shitting myself at this point. I’d spied the broken egg I’d dropped by the sink, and the aftermath of the mushroom cloud of flour I’d sent into the stratosphere when the phone had rang. That shit was everywhere.
My eyes settled on my girlfriend’s painted toenails first. Black, just like her default mood. Her bony ankles came into my view next, followed by her smooth calves, the curve of her hip beneath her short autumn hued dress, and then her tight little waist. I lingered there for a second, but skipped straight to her eyes. I didn’t dare stare at her breasts, though I dearly wanted to.
Fire and brimstone. That’s what I saw when I looked into those big brown orbs. Most people said brown eyes were as warm as melted chocolate, but I’d bet they’d look for another comparison if they came face to face with Betty. They’d walk away from that encounter thinking brown eyes were the gates to hell.
My pride and joy lifted her slender arm, hand stretched out with one finger extended, and wiped a thick black line in the flour dusted bench top. “What in the name of god happened here?” She sounded bemused.
“I-I knew you were having a shit day, so I thought I-I’d make you some stuff,” I stammered. “I just put an angel food cake in the oven, and there’s a tray of Viennese Whirls cooling on the table behind you.”
Did I detect a lift in the weather, or was the ice queen thawing a little? Her head was cocked, and she was regarding me with narrowed eyes. “You made Viennese Whirls?”
A lilt at the end of her sentence? That was definitely a positive, and I was going to take every advantage. “Yeah! I know you like them, so I made a batch. That’s why there’s so much flour everywhere. Your mum called and I got a fright thinking it was you and I’d be busted if you asked what I was doing.”
“Take off the apron, Craig.”
I hesitated, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. A mechanic in a cherry print pinny. What must I have looked like. “Do I look like a tit?”
“No, you don’t. Just take it off.”
Fingers fumbling on the stupid bow I’d knotted myself into, I did as she asked as quickly as I could. Dropping it on the breakfast bar, I turned to speak, but Betty held up a perfectly manicured finger.
“Take off your t-shirt, it’s covered in flour.”
No sooner was it said than it was done. My favourite Metallica tee joined the apron, and I huffed out a ridiculed laugh at the white dusting of powder that veiled two thirds of my tattooed arms.
“Jeans next,” Betty said quietly.
I met her eyes again then, more suspicious than surprised, and I got a rare flash of what others saw in their dark depths. For a second there was warmth, but as soon as the waist band of my jeans hit my bare toes, that warmth burst into a white hot heat.
The hairs on my abdomen tugged when I slipped my thumbs beneath the elasticated waistband of my boxers. I pulled them down about an inch or two, until most of the V I knew she loved was on show. I feigned hesitation, raising a questioning eyebrow. “These too?”
“Naturally,” she breathed.
Once my jeans and shorts had joined the rest of my clothes on the bench, Betty pointed at the floor. Did she want me to sit? No, it was probably my knees she wanted me on. That was how she liked to be worshipped. She liked nothing more than making a man kneel before her. Sometimes she’d sink her hands into my hair so she could rub her pussy in my face in whatever way she wanted, others she’d file her nails, letting the dust fall into my black hair, while I tried in vain to make her cum.
So when she brushed her fingers over the base of her throat and muttered, “Lie down, Craig,” I was stunned.
But I did it. The cold tiles didn’t feel so bad against my ass and thighs, but when my shoulders touched them I flinched. Any other day I’d have sat up and faced her wrath, but not today. Not when she was walking toward me, pulling that tawny brown dress over her head. Nope, I wasn’t moving for all the tea in China. I just lay there, saluting her regardless of the fact that my arms were by my sides.
“I want to show you something,” she said.
She was still walking, her feet either side of my legs. Once she reached my hips she stopped. My cock was straining, lifting like a flower reaching for the sun. Those were pretty words, weren’t they? They sounded so much nicer than aching to be buried in her cunt.
God, I loved looking at her like this. She was a sexy woman with her clothes on, and she slayed me once she took them off. I could see a little red fluid at the tops of her thighs, and wondered if she realised her period was starting.
“I know and I don’t care,” she said with a soft laugh.
Curiosity piqued, I dragged my eyes away from her slowly dampening pussy and asked, “Is that what you wanted to show me?”
“Nope. I want to show you one of my favourite positions. I’ll tell you what it’s called at the end.”
With that, she bent her knees, sinking straight onto my cock. A few wriggles, one or two shallow bounces, and her ass was flattening my balls against my thighs.
I didn’t dare make a sound. I just watched her rise in silence until half of my cock was exposed. It was slick with her blood, and I was happy to realise that, far from grossing me out, the sight of it turned me on even more. It was hot that she knew what she wanted, and that she wasn’t about to let something most women hid from put her off.
Resting her palms on her hips, she began to gyrate. Around and around in slow circles, sliding down and grinding against me for a few seconds, before circling back up again.
On and on she went, getting faster, squeezing little streams of sweat from between the folds of her belly every time she rolled those wide hips of hers forward. Beads of it trickled between her breasts, which she finally demanded I touch with a harsh growl.
“Grab them,” she ordered, leaning forward, tightening her pussy around the head of my cock to keep it just inside her as she fucked me. “Grab my tits, Craig. Squeeze my nipples, I need you to squeeze them.”
Her tits in my hands, my dick in her cunt? Yeah, I was going to cum if she didn’t let up soon. It wouldn’t do me any favours to blow before she did, so I winced, trying my best to strike up a conversation, hoping she’d slow down a bit. “What’s the position called?”
Smiling, she sat bolt upright and swivelled the very entrance of her vagina around the very tip of my cock. “The Viennese Whirl,” she replied.
Then, almost as though her legs couldn’t hold her up any longer, she slammed down with all her weight. Neither of us moved, but I could feel each and every contraction her orgasm squeezed from her.
Once she was done, she lifted off me, grabbing my blood red dick before it hit my belly. “Do you know how I like my viennese whirls, Craig?”
I shook my head.
“I like them filled with jam and cream, and I like them hand finished.”
Stroking my cock like there was no tomorrow, she laughed as my white stringy cum mingled with the blood on her hand. As baking days went, I think we’d all agree that this one had been a success.
This story was inspired by and written for a #GBBO themed erotica contest, hosted by the amazing Exhibit A and sponsored by one of my favourite stores, Sh! Womenstore.
