Sweets 1

*****

Alone in a bakery, the assistant manager takes a chance on an older man.

This story is an entry for the Literotica 2016 Summer Lovin' Contest.

There are elements of light domination, spanking, and lots of vanilla frosting.

Enjoy!

*****

He was my favorite customer. He walked through the doors of Sweet Times Bakery every morning. And I'd never seen him smile.

He was patient. On busy days, I knew he was in a hurry to get to work. He'd glance at his watch, rock back on his heels, and eye the long line. But he never got upset, the way other customers did. He hadn't lost it when two teenagers, lips locked together, splashed latte all over his business suit as they tried to walk like one person.

He left tips. For me. I always made sure to stand at the register when he walked in, looking cute and attentive, and he always dropped a dollar in the tip jar. His polite nod made it clear that bill was a thank-you.

He always ordered a black coffee, nothing else, ignoring the rows of sugary deliciousness staring him in the face. No big glazed cinnamon buns, no flaky danishes, no crumb-topped squares of coffeecake. He never even tried a sample.

He was at least twenty years older than me.

And the nights I was alone, I dipped my vibrator between my legs, buzzed it over my eager lips, let it settle into my tight, slick pussy, and thought about Mark.

I knew his name from his credit card. I knew he worked as a real estate lawyer because I'd asked him. And I knew he'd stopped wearing his wedding band six months ago.

I didn't know much else about Mark. But nothing got me wetter than imagining that serious face suddenly buried between my rounded thighs. Grey eyes flicking up to meet mine. Short dark hair, touched with grey, inviting and masculine under my palms. Strong hands sliding up my firm stomach to cup my heavy breasts securely. Male fingers pinching my large nipples, hard enough to make me melt and plead. A sure tongue lapping my soaked pussy, slurping every little crevice with total enjoyment. So patient, so manly, so fucking

experienced

at worshipping every soft, hot bit of my sensitive flesh.

And right when I'd be on the edge, pushing my pussy toward his mouth, whimpering incoherently, and shit, I'm begging out loud now and Sofia's on the other side of that wall and she

knows

I don't have a guy over tonight, Mark would pull back, holding my shaking thighs wide open.

Finally, he'd smile. A big grin, all for me, his face glistening with my juices. He'd smile because he could, enjoying the sight of my flushed, exposed, hot and wet body on the brink of coming.

"Good things come to those who wait, Kyra," he'd whisper, while I'd curse him with every filthy name in the book and writhe on my sweaty sheets.

Slowly, he'd unzip his pressed slacks and take out his hard, veined cock. He'd stroke it while I panted. And then he'd lean close to me, fingers wrapped around my curly hair, holding my own hand away from my soaked cunt, to murmur the softest, most evil, rage-inducing, hottest lecture about learning to control my slutty little desires. Showing him I could be a good girl, a big girl, patient enough to wait for his cock and his cum until he felt like giving it to me, and that language was

not

appropriate, and are you even listening, Kyra?

At this point, I always shrieked and clamped my legs around my hand. The thick vibrator sent spasm after spasm through my pussy. My clit buzzed with pleasure. Waves of need and release rocked my body until I flopped limply on my sheets.

And right as I'd finish coming, Sofia would always bang on the wall, mocking my yelps: "Oh God,

Mark! Fuck

me, Mark! I

neeeeeed

your cock! Don't punish me any longer!"

I'd half-heartedly kick back. Tracing one finger through my creamy cunt, I'd suck off the salty juices. I'd imagine handing my favorite customer his coffee the next morning with pussy-scented fingers.

Every day, I gave him my cheeriest "good morning!" And dammit, I wanted him to have a good morning. I wanted him to have a good life. I wanted to make him smile, just once.

"Mark?

Really, Kyra?" Sofia asked after the first nighttime moan-fest, stacking plates at the bakery counter. She eyed the real Mark's retreating back in the morning rush, openly looking him up and down. There were advantages to living with one of your coworkers, and there were disadvantages. "He isn't bad, I guess. He's pretty fit. But he's so

serious.

And there are so many cuter guys who come in that are, like, our age."

I shrugged. "I like Mark."

But Mark didn't like me. Not that way. He came, he tipped, he listened to my jokes and made the occasional wry crack. But his eyes never caressed my round hips and thick thighs. He never took a visual tour of my muscular body with its firm inviting curves. And all those curves invited right now were whistles, stares, and scribbled phone numbers. It had been a while since I'd done any of the inviting myself. These days, the only hands sliding over my body were my own.

*****

Industrial-sized fans whirred sticky air through the bakery and out the open door. My black tank top, covered with a chocolate-smeared apron, clung to my sweaty skin as I ran from the display case to the beverage cooler to the cash register. At least my flirty purple skirt was short enough to feel the breeze underneath. It was one of those August nights that never cooled down.

The manager was out for a few days. As assistant manager, I'd taken over the evening shift to handle closing. I was in charge, and it felt good. I hadn't seen Mark all week. I'd missed trying to make him smile, missed our brief morning chats over the cash register and his flashes of dry humor. But that hadn't stopped my vibrator from doing active duty late at night.

Business was brisk tonight, mostly ice cream and drinks. Sofia and I had our hands full, but my eyes popped wide open when Mark walked through the door at 9:30, half an hour before closing.

That trim body was all covered up in a button-down shirt, striped tie, and slacks, and the tie wasn't even loosened. Made my stomach flip. Obviously, temperatures would have to hit three digits before Mark loosened his tie. He must have come straight from the office. The bakery was packed with people slurping cones and milkshakes, everyone else laughing and relaxed on a hot summer night.

"I'll take this one," I hissed to Sofia, ringing up a kid's brownie.

She rolled her eyes at me from the milkshake machine. "Yeah, I bet you will."

"I haven't seen him all week." Fortunately, the bakery was noisy, voices echoing over the bouncy summer music that filled the room. No one could hear us. "I need my fix."

Sofia shook her head, spraying a snowdrift of whipped cream on top of the milkshake. "Craaazy," I saw her mouth form the words. "Addicted."

I just wiped my hands on my apron and looked up, all attention, as my favorite customer reached the counter.

"Hello, Kyra." Mark nodded to me. He didn't say my name too often. A sudden trickle of sweat dripped between my breasts. "The usual."

"Sorry, no." I gave him a big, bright, apologetic smile. It was a swamp in here, but my nipples had sprung to painful attention. "We don't serve hot black coffee on a ninety-degree August night. I'll get you a nice scoop of coffee ice cream instead. On the house."

"No. Thanks." He shifted the briefcase in his hand. The fluorescent bakery lights glinted off grey at his temples.

I crossed my arms over my breasts and leaned against the counter. If he cared to look down my tank top, he'd be treated to a deep, deep valley of cleavage. No one else was in line right now. I wanted so bad to trace my finger over his narrow lips and feel him suck it in, hard. "What can I get you, then? Something sweet. My treat."

Now he really looked at me, with an almost-smile. Not that his lips twitched, but his eyes glinted. "You've got the rainbow in your hair."

"Guess I do."

I flicked a pink curl that had fallen out of my french braid. Working in the bakery, I pulled my hair back, but it was a mass of thick curls, heavy and hot. I'd gone a little crazy with pinks and purples this time around.

"A carrot cupcake," I tried. "A slice of chocolate cake. An iced coffee — at least get your coffee on ice."

Mark raised one eyebrow at me and said nothing. A little thrill shot through my stomach. I hopped to it, obediently getting a glass mug for his black coffee.

Was he checking out my round ass when I turned away? Nope. He just took the coffee, paid, dropped a dollar in the tip jar, and sat down in the corner with his laptop.

At 10 on the dot, Sofia and I shooed crowds of happy sugared-up customers out of the bakery.

"Go home, Sof." I motioned to the door as the last people straggled out, finishing their cones. With my other hand, I turned down the music to a more mellow level. "You were up late last night. I'll handle the cleanup."

Sofia looked from me to Mark, who was still staring at his laptop in the corner. He stopped to rub his eyes, looking tired. Tired and handsome. A drop of sweat trickled down the side of his forehead. I wanted to lick it up, then wrap myself around him to make it all better.

"Nothing's gonna happen, Kyra," Sofia stage-whispered.

I just pointed to the door again. Shrugging, she shouldered her bag, whistling as she sauntered out.

Mark didn't even look up when the bells jingled. Once Sofia left, I locked the front door from the inside.

"We're closed," I called to Mark. "But take your time."

"Thanks." His eyes stayed on his screen.

Sofia was right. Nothing was going to happen. But on the way back to the counter, I bent to pick up a pile of napkins on the floor, nice and slow because hell, at least I could pretend he was looking. Still bent over, I peeked at his table, just to get a thrill.

Shock waves rippled up my legs. My long, bare, curvy legs, which Mark's eyes were openly caressing. They drank in the golden tanned skin, roved up my thighs, and lingered on my crotch. And Jesus, those eyes had to able to see everything under my short skirt, because I could feel the lazy fan waves tease my sensitive skin, tickle my soft folds, and stir the soaking blue satin thong that barely hid my eager little opening.

My knees wobbled.

Take me here on the tiled floor, in full view of the street, in front of everyone walking by...

Slowly, as slowly as I could, I stood and turned to him.

He gave me a slight nod, his face impassive, and looked down at his keyboard. Oh no, you don't. I walked over to his table and knocked on his laptop. He didn't glance up.

"All work and no play?" I asked.

Tap, tap, tap. Those fingers needed to be up my skirt, not on his keyboard. "That's how life goes sometimes, I'm afraid."

"It's summer!" I said indignantly. "You should be doing summer things."

Now he met my eyes. "Summer doesn't mean much once you're past a certain age."

Zing.

I shook my head, my braid bouncing between my shoulders. "Drinking summer drinks." I flicked his coffee cup, making the lukewarm coffee tremble. "Unbuttoning an extra button." I was so overstepping my bounds as assistant bakery manager. "Licking an ice cream cone. That's summer."

"I don't eat sugar."

"You mean, you can't, or you won't?"

"It goes here." He pointed to his abs, which, as far as I could tell, were hard and firm and doing just fine.

"Come on." I held out my hand. Mark looked at it, then up at me. "I'm going to give you a tour. I dare you to see every inch of this bakery and refuse to eat something sweet. Even a little taste." So innocent, right? So very not.

Mark eyed me calmly, saying nothing. The long, uncomfortable moment sent prickles over my skin. Finally, he closed his laptop and slid it into his briefcase. Then he stood up, briefcase in one hand.

"Let's go!" I squealed, holding out my palm again. I felt Mark's hesitation before strong, warm fingers wrapped around mine. What the hell was I doing?

As I led him behind the counter, chattering about all the delicious treats we baked from scratch and the recipes I'd helped develop, my pussy kept pulsing with hot, wet need. Sweat trickled down between my full breasts. My stomach turned flips of painful excitement. If the bakery had been a swamp before, it was a steam room now. The smells of vanilla, chocolate, melted butter, crushed strawberries made my head swim.

"Doesn't it smell good?" I glanced back at Mark. My cheeks burned. From the heat, just the heat.

He shrugged. "It smells sweet."

"Do you have kids?" I asked abruptly.

"Yes." He looked startled.

"How old are they?"

"16 and 18."

Jesus. I mean, I would have been old enough to babysit them when they were younger, but still — same generation.

"Do you get along with them?"

His eyes crinkled. "They're teenagers. I do my best. We'll come out okay on the other side."

"And you're divorced."

He glanced at me sharply. His fingers shifted around mine.

"Your ring." I gestured at his left hand, the one holding his briefcase. "You're not wearing it anymore." Mark lifted an eyebrow. My cheeks burned hotter in the silence. "I notice what happens with regular customers."

"Yes, I'm divorced. You're very observant."

"And you're how old?"

"45." He eyed me carefully.

I nodded like this was all in a day's work. Older guy, bakery tour, flashing, juices trickling down my thigh. Hand-holding that had me ready to cream my panties. Perfect managerial behavior. I'd be promoted any day now.

"I'm 24."

"Mm-hm." He followed me past the counter, toward the back room. "You're out of school?"

The question made me feel very young, which just got me wetter. "I go to culinary school. We're off for August. I want to open my own bakery someday."

Mark nodded. He was holding my hand firmly, in a way that also made me feel very young. And his fingers were lightly massaging... What? No. I'd imagined that. My knees were about to give out, my pussy like fucking lava.

"I used to work in a place like this, the summer I was 18, 19," he said abruptly.

"Yeah?"

"Hated it."

"No." I whipped around to stare at him, my mouth an O. My hand tugged against his and I felt it all the way up to my shoulder. "You couldn't have. This is the best place in the world."

His lips twitched. "Customers being rude, wanting their food immediately. The air always hot from the ovens. And temptation everywhere."

Temptation.

Oh, shit. That word, in his deep voice, turned my stomach to mush and my pussy to liquid heat. I stopped in front of him.

"Temptation how?" My mouth was watering.

"You know," he said softly. We stood inside the doorway to the back room now, very close. His male scent, sharp and clean, cut through the rich smells of the bakery. Grey eyes flicked to the display case showing pretty jewels of frosted cupcakes, then to the baker's racks with rows of huge puddled cookies like buttery suns. Our fingers were still twined together. "So many delicious things around you. It's easier to say no when you just can't see them."

"Why deny yourself?" My whole body prickled. If Mark slipped a hand under my flirty little skirt and palmed my thong, he'd feel the hottest pussy imaginable. My nipples ached. So hard, they poked right through my tight black tank top and snug white apron, two large mounds begging to be pinched.

Mark let my hand go. Stepping into the back room, he set his briefcase on the tiled counter, looking around without really looking. I followed his gaze to the shiny empty trays, clean and stacked. The humming steel fridge, the walk-in freezer. Big bowls ready for the 4 am baker's shift. Rows of bulk jars on metal shelves: rainbow sprinkles, crushed wafers, chocolate chips, ground spices.

His shoulders screamed tension. Any minute now, he'd make a break for it. No one deserves to be tense in a bakery, on a hot summer's night. But damn, those were nice shoulders. Mark wasn't a bulky guy. Medium height, medium build, everything lean and defined and making me wetter.

Crossing the room, I opened the fridge. A blast of cool air hit my sweaty curves. I was so horny and nervous, I could barely walk.

"You have to try this." Plunging my finger into a random tub of icing, I scooped up a swirl of chocolate and held it out to Mark. "I made it today."

A very long pause. "I don't do things in moderation."

"What the hell does that mean?" I was still holding out my finger, crowned with a blob of chocolate frosting, waving it under his nose.

"It means," his grey eyes never left mine, "that I can't just do a little of something. It's a useful thing to learn about yourself. So, no. Thank you. But no frosting."

"Fine." I stuck my finger in my mouth and sucked it noisily, staring right back at him. His jaw clenched. "Suit yourself. That's why you're all about work, I bet. And why summer's like every other season, right? And they all just start blending together, because you don't do anything to make it special, and I bet everything does eventually, because—"

Hot lips. Crushing mine. Devouring. God. Oh God. I'd leaned towards Mark, maybe I'd started it, but — oh Jesus, a thick male tongue pushed into my mouth, strong hands gripped the back of my head, fingers were pulling my hair out of its tight braid — he was definitely continuing it.

"Mark," I moaned into his mouth, my hands sliding up his back. I squeezed firm muscle. Fuck, he felt solid. And so good

,

and male, and

right,

and I was rubbing my tingling breasts against his chest when he pulled back.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," he began, looking shocked, and his sudden stammered apology just made my knees weak.

"Fuck you," I whispered fiercely. "Fuck

me."

"I don't think you know what you're asking for, Kyra." Like I was a little girl. We stared at each other. The fridge hummed. The fans whirred. The air smelled like cinnamon.

"Oh, believe me." I held his gaze. "I do."

Suddenly, tiles pressed into my back, flattening my long curls. He'd pushed me up against the wall next to the fridge. I gasped with need into that demanding mouth, raking my fingers over his hair.

"Don't stop, don't hold back," I moaned into the kiss.

Mark's eyes widened, but he kissed me harder, pinning me in place with his body. Excitement arrowed down my skin in hot pulses. This was happening.

Fingers swiftly loosened my apron and yanked my cheap tank top over my head. The fabric floated to the floor. When palms cupped my breasts, rolling the heavy mounds, I moaned.

Mark pulled back, grey eyes fixed on the generous curves spilling over my maroon bra. The cups were mesh on top, satin below. The tops of my deep brown nipples, huge and hard, showed through the sheer material.

Sharp desire needled my skin as Mark's thumbs traced a rough pattern over the aching buds. I wrapped my bare arms around him, grinding my mound against his slacks-covered crotch. Oh, sweet lord. He was very, very hard.

"I'm wet," I breathed. I wanted, needed to confess.

"I know, Kyra," he said softly. "I saw. You showed me. Did you really mean to do that?" And he pinched down on my nipples.

"Ah..." I gasped. He was pinching harder and harder, a slow growing tightness. Heat rushed to my pussy, my face. Half-closed eyes watched me with molten lust.

I'd guessed right about Mark. Underneath that serious face and quiet personality was something very different.

I wouldn't tell him to stop. I wouldn't give in— Oh shit, I was clutching his shoulders, my pussy was a river, my thighs were soaked and rubbing together, my nipples burned as he crushed them more and more —

I gave in. "Mark, enough," I panted.

He let go immediately. My nipples tingled, hot and intense. Warm palms soothed my breasts, nuzzling the aching nubs.