A few weeks after my first date with Tom (yes, there have been others; he's a really nice guy, and tremendously...gifted), he gave me a call. One of the rookies at his precinct was getting married, and as his best friend, Tom had been tasked with the bachelor party.
"And you naturally thought of me. Should I be flattered?" I asked.
"I...well, I think you're really beautiful, and, um..." Gods, he's cute when he's flustered.
"Relax. Kidding. You can pay me back in orgasms later."
By the time I got to the meeting room he'd rented for the party, I had a plan. I got a surprisingly enthusiastic buy-in from the caterer, who had decided to use a different baker than usual for the cake.
Hey, strippers popping out of cakes may be an old gag, but it stayed popular for a reason. I just gave it my own special Belinda Airheart twist.
I liked the baker on sight. She stood maybe a foot shorter than me at my "regular" height, but then, a lot of people did. An anthro squirrel, she had the normal big dark eyes, twitching ears, and bushy tail one would expect, but a much more focused form of energy. She was a smart girl who just happened to look cute.
"Can I help you?" She asked, not looking up from her mixer.
"I'm Belinda, the..."
"'Exotic dancer.'" She said it in a tone that meant "stripper." I'd heard it all before.
"I usually go for 'good time had by all,' but you can just call me Belinda.
"Sorry. Natalie," she said, still not looking up. When she finished mixing, she finally regarded me. "Wow. Not what I was expecting." I had worn my blue wool skirt suit, in order to avoid both attracting attention, and being mistaken for a caterer. I like creating a good first impression and saving time.
I smirked. "My dirty tank top and painted-on jeans are at the dry cleaners."
This got a giggle. "I'm sorry, Belinda. It's just that...this is all for a cop, and it's a whole boy's club culture thing, and I pre-judged you, and..."
The oven ding!ed, and she darted for it without breaking her train of thought, easily whipping out a heavenly smelling layer of cake. "...and this whole thing is probably stressing me out way more than it should for just a basic pop-out."
I knew the basics of a pop-out cake; normally only the top few layers are even made of cake. If they were edible at all, the layers that hid the stripper were made of crisped rice treats for structural stability. So what was the problem?
"Well, clearly you're a great baker," I said, eliciting a sweet expression from her as she measured ingredients. "What is the big deal? This is just another job, right?"
"Sort of. See, with this one, the groom is marrying the Chief's daughter, so the Chief is going to be there," she said, worried.
"And he's okay with the whole stripper thing?"
"Please. He's old-school. As long as he doesn't see anything illegal take place, it didn't happen."
I frowned, still not getting the connection. "So you're worried about possibly not getting new clients out of the deal if he's not happy?"
She stopped. "Not...exactly," she said, a bit reticent. "It's just..."
I waited for her to finish.
"I think he would rather have put his only kid through criminal justice school than culinary school." She started laying fondant on a sheet of cake as the silence filled the room.
"And...you're okay with me dancing for..."
"Please. Dad's the old-fashioned one, and he doesn't really care. Me? Look, Andy and I are both still virgins. He's marvelously passionate and I have no problem saving myself for marriage...it's just...two virgins in one bed is one too many, you know?"
I almost said that it really depends on how many people were there in all, but this didn't seem like the time.
"I do," I said instead. "So...I have a plan."
After I convinced her that it was okay to let the air out of me, I fit quite easily in the much smaller space she had made in the somewhat smaller cake. She later told me that doing it this way was much more satisfying, since she hated making rice bricks to pull this stunt off. She also told me that the expression on Tom's face was priceless; she didn't know I hadn't told him about this phase of the plan. The other guests also seemed a bit surprised that the confection wasn't bigger, but not for the same reason. Tom had extensive personal knowledge.
Fortunately, I didn't have long to wonder at their reactions when the music started, and Tom, still a little bemused, announced, "Andy Gianalli, this is your bachelor party. Your last night as a free man before being chained to..."
"Dahlgren," said a voice undoubtedly belonging to the chief, "I suggest you skip forward just a little bit."
I enjoyed the laughter, but really wanted to get this party started. "Ahem. Yes," Tom continued, "so we sprung for the big meal, the drinks, and of course, the traditional bachelor cake. We also wanted to hire a dancer, but on such short notice..."
My sharp ears immediately picked up the start of the music, "we had to pull out all the stops."
Appropriate. I had feared that he was going to say, "this was the best we could do," which would definitely have come up in conversation later. As it was, it was time for me to pop up, which I did, activating the microscopic vacuum pump mechanisms in my valves that drew air rapidly into my deflated form--delicious, sugary, cake-scented air.
"Aw, c'mon, Tom, what'd you do, stuff a blow-up doll into the--Holy Moses!" The fat detective's eyes grew wide as he caught my hips--currently bright red, along with the rest of my skin--swelled, shone, and begin to sway. Every single other guest had the same stunned look on their muzzles, and I couldn't help feeling a bit smug as I began to dance to the jazzy number on the music player, clad in nothing but yellow cake, white fondant, blue frosting, and a self-satisfied smile. Oh, and the stunned adoration of the audience.
I did, after a fashion, ensure that at least some of Natalie's cake made it to the boys' plates; it was simply too good to waste, as the occasional teasing taste with my finger confirmed. I soaked up the excitement of the guests for a few songs, occasionally perching in a middle-aged lap or giving a toss of my raven-colored hair (and setting my bosom jiggling) to confirm that my appeal had not faded. That and I wanted to imagine how they would explain the frosting to their spouses and partners. Finally, though, the "gentlemen" gradually excused themselves one by one to stagger off into the night (sometimes with a quick stop by the restroom, either to try to clean frosting off clothing, or...other reasons; I may have mentioned that I have very sharp hearing), until only the guest of honor remained.
"Dammit!" he muttered.
"Not the response I usually get, but it's a start. So...it's just you, and just little ol' me," I said. What do you say we have a little fun?" I sat in his lap and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. I wouldn't have to fib to compliment his looks. He was younger than Tom, and a wiry anthro-ocelot of average height, but he had cute eyes and powerful muscles under his silk shirt.
"No, I mean...I really don't want to do this. I...look, it's nothing against you, really. It's just that this kind of thing isn't me," he said.
I pulled back a little bit. "Okay. I can understand that. Some people have sort of a Madonna-whore complex, and clearly I'm no Madonna..." Well, given that I had gone for a shiny crimson color for my skin today, that was an understatement.
He stared at me, shocked. "Well, I never said that," he said. "I just don't want to..."
