Welcome back to
. A (mostly) short fiction, vastly experimental, newsletter inspired by stock photography.Today’s story falls into the twisted category.
Aaaaaand….
That’s all I’m going to say.
“What the….?”
The bottle of cologne slips from my hand and lands on the bathroom floor with a muffled thwap.
I’m hit with a drool-worthy blast of vanilla and spice and discover my fingers are covered in a thick ivory paste, dotted with brown crumbs. My stomach growls and my mouth curls into a smile.
Cake.
I lick and suck my fingers clean, close my eyes, and imagine her mouth doing the honors. The real bottle of cologne is MIA, so my Sweetie will be getting me without my signature scent today. The one that drives her out of her mind—and her clothes—every time we meet. I’ll have to de-panty her the old-fashioned way.
I eat the rest of my cologne off the bathroom floor and then head to the closet for my sneakers. I step into the right shoe and then the left. My left foot sinks through two inches of sponge cake and hits the carpet.
“Aagh.” I look down at my sock, sticky with orange marmalade and get a heady rush from the citrus fumes.
Mm. She’s good.
I lick my lips to curb the saliva gathering at the corners.
She’s really, really good.
I eagerly wolf down my left sneaker, my insides warming over the skillful deliciousness of her prank. Sweetie knows how to keep her man happy, that’s for damn sure.
I test a pair of loafers with my fingers before I slide them onto my bare feet. I told Jenna I’m going running this morning, so here’s hoping she doesn’t notice my footwear before I leave the house.
She’s in the kitchen, reading a magazine at the table, her back turned to me.
“Hey, Baby,” I say.
She doesn’t budge.
“I made your coffee,” she says dryly. “Just the way you like it.”
“Wow.” I turn my head, surprised to see my favorite mug, full of hot coffee, the perfect shade of caramel brown, still whirlpooling from her stirring. “Thanks, Baby.”
I grab the mug and throw it back, expecting to down it in two gulps like I usually do, and stop after the first sip. I swallow hard and smack my lips over an unfamiliar taste.
“Something wrong?” she asks without looking up.
There’s definitely something wrong with the coffee, but I’m not about to start a thing with my wife about it. Not when my Sweetie is waiting for me.
“Nope. All good.” I slug the last of the coffee and try not to gag. Thankfully, I’m able to chase away the aftertaste with a raspberry torte replica of my Nalgene bottle that I devour en route to the morning’s main event.
My stomach feels a little off as I walk-jog toward our meeting place in the park. I distract myself from feeling nauseated by trying to imagine the lengths my talented little baker must have gone to. Breaking into my house to plant those scrumptious seeds of foreplay, right under my wife’s nose.
The sidewalk tips and my stomach lurches, sending a geyser of hot bile into the back of my throat. I blink over a wave of dizziness and swallow the bitter taste of marmalade mixed with metal and coffee. I reach for a park bench to steady myself and fall through a slab of black forest cake, slamming my shoulder into the ground. “Aagghh!”
I struggle to stand and focus my eyes, now coated with chocolate crumbs and cherry syrup. I wipe my face on my sleeve and stumble on, determined to reach our rendezvous point. The ground under my feet buckles and bends with every step but the people around me don’t seem to notice.
A cold sweat breaks out over my body, and I vomit my morning foreplay onto the glowing purple fire hydrant next to the racoon selling cupcakes to my high school English teacher. “Surry,” I garble. “Too much cock this mandarin…”
But where’s my Sweetie? She should be in the fire hydrant … on the hire fydrant … at the fountain, waiting for me.
A moment of post-vomit clarity reveals her curvy silhouette, perched at the far end of the courtyard. My Sweetie!
“Coming, Sweetie,” I mumble.
I run to her, my heart racing, my swimming eyes blurring the edges of her sexy outline, seated beside the fountain. I catch my toe on a cobble stone, use the momentum of my fall to go in hot with a hug, and face plant into her perfect breasts.
My jaw cracks against stone, and my two front teeth snap out of their sockets and land in the fountain. My mouth fills with blood and the sweet taste of red velvet cake soaked in rum. I spit out a chunk of cake and lift myself up to my knees.
“Thweetie, NO!” I gather her cake likeness into my hands, and she falls to pieces. Rich, sweet, delicious, velvety pieces. “You’re cake!” I burst into tears and rub her gooey remains into my cheeks. I lick her from my palms and go back for more, over and over, until I can’t keep her down anymore.
I finish crying … and puking … and start the wobbly walk home.
The hallucinations have stopped.
The trip—or whatever the hell that was—is over.
My clothes are still clean. My teeth are still intact.
And my balls are still blue.
Jenna stands by the kitchen sink, her back turned to me.
“Hey, Baby.”
She doesn’t budge.
I feel an agonizing twist in my gut. Flashes of my morning crash through my mind, and the taste of tainted coffee creeps into my throat.
“Baby?”
No answer.
My heart pounds in my ears, and a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead, as I move closer.
I reach a trembling hand out to touch her shoulder.
She spins around to face me, and I let out a strangled yell.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
I peer through my fingers, pressed over my face, and my heart leaps up out of my stomach.
“Oh, Baby.” I pull her toward me and press my mouth to hers. I moan happily at the taste of her lips. Salty, tangy, fleshy. Just the way I like them. She kisses me back and I moan again because mm, she’s good. She’s really, really good.
She pulls back and gives me a coy smile before descending to her knees in front of me.
Oh … Baby.
She de-pantses me, and I lean back against the island, close my eyes, and imagine her mouth, about to do the honors.
I wait for her to start.
Aaaaaand…
Still waiting.
“Baby?”
“Mmmm…”
My eyes snap open and my lungs seize in horror.
Her mouth and chin are smeared with chocolate and vanilla custard. She licks her lips and grins as my eyes roll back into my head and I pass out cold.
I come to with my hand over my junk—still intact—and she’s gone.
I lift myself up to my knees, re-pants myself, and get hit with a gag-worthy blast of my signature scent.
On the kitchen island, in a pool of my cologne, sits my favorite mug, stuffed with the half-eaten remains of a chocolate eclair.
And on my left sneaker in black Sharpie….
Oh….
“Fuck.”
Props to my friend
for casually challenging me to write this story after I sent her a goofy meme on Instagram.Hey, Baby.
Thank you for reading
. If you enjoyed today’s installment, please let me know via liking, sharing, commenting, or restacking.And if you have feedback on the story, you can tell me like a sandwich.1
Because that’s just the way I like it.
Freshly baked regards,
Fun! You know what I liked most and why this surreal story works? No vagueness. Clear details, crisp action. And I’m left wanting some cake. Constructive suggestion? When he returns and his wife turns, and he’s like “oh baby” looking through his fingers? I don’t know what happens there. Is his wife holding a knife? Is his wife smiling seductively? The ending “you’ve been served” was clever and a great active way to reveal the premeditated status reversal of wife of cheated-upon to boss.
I laughed, I cried, I gagged and was strangely aroused? So many layers to this cake you baked.