Author's Note: I want to take a moment to thank my volunteer editor - Neuroparenthetical. This story is the fifteenth piece he has edited for me. He is always thoughtful, supportive, and diligent in how he approaches the process of offering feedback and suggestions. Thank you so much for all of your continued assistance, Neuroparenthetical.
I bit off a small piece of white chocolate from the large slab. It was my sister's favorite; I vastly preferred dark. I liked the tantalizing bitterness of an Ecuadorian bean. Nevertheless, I tried to enjoy the sweetness as it melted on my tongue.
I glanced over at the other bowl on the counter; it looked like it was almost done proofing. Part of what had driven me to want to become a pastry chef was that I'd always been good at multi-tasking. A lot of folks struggled when there were too many irons in the fire, but I never felt more alive than when I had lots of pots and pans on the stove.
I slid one of those pots - just water - onto the back burner as I broke the white chocolate up into a small glass bowl. I'd learned conflicting information about tempering white chocolate from my instructors. One thing I knew for a fact, though, was that it had to be done at a different temperature than milk or dark chocolate.
"Bye, Ansel!" Kristy called out as she walked towards the back of the classroom.
"Oh, bye Kristy," I replied. "Have a good night. I'll see you at the thing tomorrow."
I felt a little bad that I hadn't noticed that Kristy was leaving. I remembered that she had said she needed to head out by 6 p.m. sharp in order to meet up with some friends.
To be honest, I would have liked to have been leaving as well. I had two compelling reasons to stay, though. First and foremost, I'd promised to make my younger sister's birthday cake. She hadn't been too picky about anything other than the appearance. She'd said she wanted a pink mirror glaze with white chocolate accents. Since I knew that what she really wanted was to impress her other hyper-girly tween friends with something pretty, I decided to jazz up her idea with a ring of little hearts around the edge of the cake top.
The other reason was much more selfish: extra credit. The student government was trying to raise money for a refugee organization. They had partnered with the culinary program to host what was being advertised as an "international baked goods and dessert buffet." Everyone who had opted to participate had to pick an item associated with a particular country to make. The coordinating instructor, Chef Tiller, had dangled the predictable carrot, and had gotten a lot of "volunteers."
I had originally decided to make
hamantaschen
; I'd wanted to give the college's largely Baptist town something they'd probably never seen before, let alone tried. However, I had been convinced to make bread instead after Chef Tiller had realized that most people were making cookies and cakes. I ended up pivoting to challah... so,
challah at ya boy
for being flexible. Sorry, I couldn't resist.
I looked around the empty classroom. Most of the stations had been cleared and cleaned after the students had finished their work, but a few had left their projects - or some of the ingredients - out for the next day. Kristy, a consummate over-achiever, had left a few dozen macaron shells that she was going to fill the next morning. There were a few bags of walnuts on Kurt's station from whatever he had made.
The yeast finally finished proofing, and I knew that I could let the water simmer for as long as I needed. I decided to make the dough. It wasn't a hard step - just combining the yeast with oil, eggs, and a bit of salt and sugar before gradually adding the flour. I'd done it plenty of times.
After incorporating all of the ingredients, the next step was to knead the dough. I knew that I should use a stand mixer; it was the more efficient choice. Regardless, I had the strangest urge to do it by hand. I convinced myself that I could boast about it to the Chef Tiller in hopes that it would curry her favor.
Most people who've never baked don't appreciate how messy and strenuous it can be to knead dough. I did, and once I'd decided to do it by hand, I started feeling very manly. I rolled the sleeves of my chef's jacket further up my strong forearms and smiled, letting myself be vain for just a moment. I prepared the counter with the requisite flour, then reached into the bowl to scoop up the dough.
Wet?
I thought to myself as I cradled the amorphous form in my large hands. None of my previous challah bread doughs had ever been quite that wet. It felt slippery and sticky against my palms. The smell of yeast wafted up as I gently used my fingers to play with it.
I knew I could save the dough, and I didn't want to start over. I plopped it down on the counter; it made a loud thwacking noise as it landed. I reflexively giggled; it took me a moment to figure out that it had sounded exactly like someone smacking an ass. I was one to know; my most recent ex-girlfriend's ass had been quite the little drum, and I'd played it with aplomb.
I dusted the dough with a considerable amount of flour to help offset it its over-hydration. I made sure to brush some on my palms to keep it from sticking to them quite as much. My hands went to work without me even having to tell them what to do.
A memory pushed its way to the forefront of my mind; it was from a few months earlier, when I'd still been with my ex. I'd just popped a loaf of challah into the oven. I'd promised to bring it to her parents' house the next day for a family dinner. She'd come home a little buzzed after it had been in the oven for about twenty minutes. The warm, comforting aroma had already filled the apartment.
She'd found me lounging on the bed in nothing but my boxers, reading a book. She had started to tell me how sexy I was; it hadn't taken more than a minute for me to get the hint. I had peeled off her clothes and bent her over the foot of the bed. I had massaged her juicy ass with my firm fingers as I'd fucked her. I'd ended up cumming right as the timer had gone off, telling me the bread was done.
I looked down at my fingers digging into the dough. It was still wet, but not as messy as earlier. It had gotten to that point where it wanted to stick but eventually pulled away after holding onto my skin for a second too long. Without thinking, I molded the dough into a large half-dome. It looked so fucking good; I gave it a firm smack. I heard echoes reverberate in my head, rather than in my ears: all the times my firm palm had made contact with my ex's peachy ass.
My cock filled with blood as I grasped the dough, just on the verge of truly groping it. I inhaled deeply again, inviting the aroma to overwhelm me. A surge of sexual energy radiated outward from my core. I could feel it become more intense as the nerve endings in my dick sparked and my nipples hardened.
I hadn't had sex in over a month, and I hadn't jerked off in about a week. I'd been too busy to do the latter. That may not sound like a long time to some, but for a nineteen-year-old with an unquenchable sex drive it felt like forever.
I reached down with the back of my right hand, so as to not get my jeans needlessly dirty, and started to caress myself through the denim. I allowed my left hand to dig into the dough. It felt warm and firm beneath my grasp. I began to breathe in deeply; butterflies were taking flight in my stomach.
I knew what I wanted to do, but I couldn't believe it. I looked up at the sterile classroom; nobody else was there. I told myself that none of the other students would be returning after 6 p.m. on a Friday evening since they all had lives. My cock was vibrating from being stroked through my jeans; I would have told myself anything I needed to hear to not stop.
I started to softly poke two of my fingers into the dough; it gave way so nicely. It felt like I was opening up an excited pussy. Well, not really, but that's what I wanted to envision in that moment. My digits probed deeper as I teased my cock simultaneously.
My fingers finally reached the point where only their knuckles were left exposed. That flipped a switch within me; I couldn't hold back any longer. I glanced back over my shoulder at the door one last time, reassuring myself yet again that I was alone, and would stay that way.
I used the hand that had been rubbing my dick to pop open the button on my jeans and quickly yank down the zipper. I tried to pull down my pants with one hand, but it was too difficult. I stopped caring about the mess as the sense of urgency grew within me. I took both my semi-sticky hands and frantically pushed down my jeans and boxers to my shins.
My rock-hard cock jutted forward, no longer constrained. I'd always been proud of my size; at nine inches, both my ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends had loved playing with it. It was girthy, too; I had once held it next to a twenty-ounce soda bottle for comparison, and they'd been about the same circumference. In that moment, I was also quite happy that I regularly shaved my pubes. Those hairnets they make people wear aren't just for show.
I hoisted the bottom my chef's jacket and T-shirt, trying to bunch them up above my large pecs. My six-pack tightened as I struggled with the task. Eventually, I used my biceps to squeeze the fabric, pinning it under my armpits.
I grabbed the dough and re-positioned it at the edge of the station; it was still about six inches higher than my crotch. I reached under the table to pull out the stepping stool; each station had one in case a shorter student needed it for any of the usual reasons, and most definitely not for mine. I practically jumped onto it.
My dick was twitching as I gazed down at it in, throbbing eagerly before the glutenous glutes I'd fashioned. I inched my hips forward, halting when I felt the tip of my cock head kiss the warm dough. Feeling its touch, I realized that it was never going to rise properly; it was already figuratively fucked. That felt like the universe giving me its blessing: waste not, fuck yes.
I gently thrusted forward, letting the sticky mess part to accommodate my substantial girth. I chuckled at how nice it was not to have to hear someone tell me that I needed to go slower. As the dough enveloped my head, I let out a loud moan. It felt so amazing: just like a pussy, but without the often-whiny person attached.
I peered back at the door again, suddenly worried. I could just imagine how ridiculous it would have looked: a six-foot-one, muscular jock type hammering away at a mound of dough. It gave the phrase 'playing with one's food' a whole new meaning.
I grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the station and dripped several drops onto my shaft. I began to push forward again, feeling a new sensation as the ersatz lube did its job. I yanked at the dough with both hands and began kneading it.
As I pressed into it with greater intensity, it molded itself around me even tighter. I was balls-deep within a few seconds. It was a truly spectacular sensation. As I pulled out, the dough greedily tried to hold on like it was some expert cock-sucker desperate to milk a guy to the edge of sanity with their lips.
I began to push in and out at a slow rate, falling into a rhythm. My head was spinning with delight. Memories of various girls and guys sucking me off played in my mind while I closed my eyes tightly. If I pretended hard enough, I could feel each of their slippery throats accommodating my thrusting cock.
I opened my eyes and looked down at the dough; it truly was magical - a makeshift pussy and a warm throat, simultaneously or all-in-one. Sure, I knew the real thing would have been better in some ways, but I was the beggar in the old adage.
As the excitement flowed through my body, my chef's jacket started to slip from its bunched position under my armpits. I swatted it away as it unraveled onto the dough. I started to push it back into place, but my frustration mounted. I took a different route; I shimmied out of the jacket and shirt, forcing them both to slide over my head. I heedlessly tossed them on the far side of the station. The newfound freedom of movement stoked the fire in my loins.
I used my hands to shape the dough into an ass - the most perfect one I thought I'd ever seen. I guessed it was time to complete the trifecta with some anal. My cock was starting to drip a strand of pre-cum; it combined with the olive oil to make for an even smoother ride.
I transitioned into jackhammering. My balls were slapping into the dough with each forceful thrust. I used my right hand to slap the imitation ass.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
It felt so God-damned glorious.
