Big Red 9 The Fuckery Bakery

The bell over the door chimed like a warning shot.

The bakery was open.

Not just any bakery--the first adults-only bakery in the county.

PIERRE'S PRIVATE PROOF

Grand opening banners stretched across the glass. Small print: "Fresh bread. Sweeter flesh."

Big Red--Marla--stood behind the counter, heart thumping, apron barely covering her plump tits, straps digging into her shoulders. Her nipples already peeking out over the thin fabric. The apron's hem barely kissed the top of her thighs. Her ass? Bare to the world. White, thick, soft and fuckable.

The air smelled of fresh bread and raw, unfiltered sex.

Pierre stood beside her, proud, his belly dusted with flour, cock already tenting his loose slacks. His eyes ran up and down her body without shame.

"Time to make an impression," he whispered.

The first customers pushed through the door: three men in dirty jeans, grinning wide, eyes snapping to her tits like magnets.

Then a woman, sharp-eyed, high heels clicking, a leather mini-skirt hugging her hips.

Pierre didn't wait.

He grabbed a pastry bag filled with thick frosting, squeezed a fat swirl across her fat nipples, and handed her a tray of bread samples. "Go greet the guests."

Marla hesitated. Her thighs clenched. The frosting chilled her skin. Her whole body quivered, but she stepped out anyway, tray in shaking hands.

The men whistled immediately.

"Shit, look at that!" one barked, cock already hard behind his zipper.

"Freshest buns I've seen all day," another joked, reaching shamelessly for her tray--and brushing her ass "accidentally" with his palm.

Marla gasped. Heat shot up her neck. She forced herself to stay still, breathing shallow.

Pierre called from behind the counter, loud enough for everyone to hear. "We offer special samples today. Customers can lick the frosting right off our model... free of charge."

The first man didn't hesitate. He leaned in, tongue flat, and dragged a wet, slow stripe over Marla's left nipple, sucking the frosting clean.

She almost dropped the tray.

Her knees buckled. Her cunt pulsed hard enough to make her clench.

Another customer grabbed her ass with one hand, steadying her, and leaned down to lap at her right breast. His stubble scraped her skin. His teeth grazed her areola.

Pierre laughed low.

The woman in heels circled closer.

She didn't rush. She studied Marla the way a cat studies a mouse. Then she tapped a manicured nail against Marla's thigh. "Can I request a sample... a little lower?"

Pierre grinned. Marla's mouth opened to protest, but he beat her to it. "Of course. She's on the menu."

The woman knelt right there, lifted the apron hem with two fingers, and stared straight into Marla's dripping, bare cunt. "Looks delicious," she said.

She didn't lick. Not yet. She blew a soft, cold breath across Marla's swollen lips, watching her tremble, watching her juices thread down her thighs.

Marla's whole body shook. She struggled to stay standing. Her tray clattered to the floor.

Applause broke out around her.

Pierre sauntered over, pressed a hand between her shoulder blades, bent her slightly forward so the crowd got a better look. "She's still rising," he said. "Takes time for the best dough to proof."

The crowd laughed, catcalled, some jerking off openly now--stroking thick meat through their jeans while staring at her swaying tits and leaking pussy.

Marla bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

Pierre leaned close, frosting still on his fingers, and whispered: "Time to show them you're ready to be served."

He dragged his frosting-coated fingers between her ass cheeks, smearing the sugar down her crack, brushing her hole.

Marla gasped, legs buckling further.

The woman in heels licked a clean line up Marla's thigh, slow and deliberate, before stepping back, smiling like she'd just tasted forbidden fruit.

"Delicious," she said, wiping her mouth.

Pierre clapped his hands once. "Back behind the counter. We're just getting started."

Marla staggered backward, face flushed, thighs shaking, apron sliding with each step, frosting smeared across her tits, her ass glistening, her cunt leaking down her inner thighs for the whole filthy bakery to see.

She didn't say a word.

She wanted more.

•••••

Pierre grabbed Marla by the hips and steered her to the prep table.

Flour dusted the air. The surface was slick with smears of butter and wet dough. He bent her over hard, chest slamming into the cold steel, tits pressed flat, apron bunched up around her waist, nothing between her and the filth of the bakery but the sweat on her skin.

He grabbed a bag of frosting and squeezed it across the small of her back, down her crack, over her thighs--painting her like a cake about to be devoured. "Stay just like that," he ordered, voice thick.

She trembled but spread her legs wider, baring herself fully to him, to the customers still loitering around the counter, jerking off, moaning at the sight.

Pierre dropped his pants. His cock sprang free--thick, veined, curved hard up like a battering ram ready to split her open.

The woman in heels sat cross-legged on a nearby bench, two fingers sliding in and out of her own pussy, watching without blinking.

Pierre pressed the tip of his cock between Marla's cheeks, frosting sliding down the shaft, making it slick. "Beg for it," he growled.

Marla choked on her own breath, then spat it out, voice cracking. "Please--fill me. Use me."

Pierre slammed into her in one brutal thrust. No warning, no easing. Her body jerked up against the table, tits bouncing, apron straps digging into her shoulders.

She screamed once, loud, shameless. The customers cheered.

Pierre grunted, shoved deeper, grinding frosting into her skin with every thrust, slamming her forward so hard that handprints smeared the flour covering the table. His balls slapped against her dripping cunt, thick and wet.

The table squealed beneath them, bolts straining.

He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back, bent her neck hard. "You like being bakery meat?" he hissed in her ear.

"Yes," she gasped, drool running from her lips onto the metal table.

He pounded harder. No rhythm. Just violent need. Each thrust jolted her body, pushed the air from her lungs. She clung to the edge of the table which was the only thing keeping her upright.

The woman in heels moaned louder, coming hard across the bench.

One of the men shot his load against the glass display case, breathing heavy.

Pierre pulled out just long enough to slap his cock across her ass, leaving streaks of frosting and cum, then shoved back inside, brutal, balls slamming against her thighs.

Marla shook, head spinning, body spasming.

She came without warning, squirting across the table, legs buckling. A stream of slick soaked the steel, splashing against Pierre's thighs.

"Fuck," he grunted, shoving deep one last time, cock throbbing.

He pumped her full, spilling inside her with a snarl that shook the room.

He didn't pull out. He stayed buried, grinding into her, thick frosting smearing into her ass and thighs with every tiny thrust.

Marla collapsed fully against the table, breathless, broken open, dripping everywhere.

Pierre finally pulled back, cock gleaming, dripping frosting and cum. He slapped her ass once and laughed.

He handed her a paper bag and stuffed a loaf of fresh sourdough inside.

"For your husband," he said, winking. "Tell him thanks for letting me borrow the goods."

Marla staggered to her feet, apron still clinging to her wrecked body, legs shaking, body streaked in cream, frosting, flour, and sweat.

She adjusted the bag under her arm, tits still swinging freely, and limped toward the door.

The bell chimed again.

Everyone watched her leave.

Nobody said a word.

They were still jerking off.

THE END