Barefoot, she stepped into the kitchen, the terracotta tiles cool against her feet and the lights slightly dimmed. It was late–past midnight already–and the kitchen was quiet and clean and empty.
Just the way she liked it.
She tied back her hair and opened the cupboard, pulling out the mixing bowl, the measuring jug, the sugar, the flour, and the vanilla. Disturbing her favorite ingredients was making the room smell sweet already, the fragranced air reminding her of brioche, cinnamon rolls, and bagels; enriched doughs and emulsified batters; late nights elbow deep in choux pastry or spinning sugar syrup.
She padded across the kitchen, enjoying the juxtaposed sensations of the soft rug and the cold tile on her heels. She opened the fridge and reached for the rest of her ingredients; the buttermilk, the margarine, and the eggs, handling the latter one by one, their smooth shells cool beneath her fingers. The cocoa was already out on the counter, dark and fine, like sifted soil, and she measured it into a small glass bowl.
She moved without hurry.
Measuring. Pouring. Stirring.
But not mixing. Not yet.
She let the ritual take hold of her, her thoughts and worries melting away as she moved ever closer to her favorite part of the process. It was the moment she had been looking forward to all day, and she allowed herself a small smile as the butter gave under her thumb, pressing it into the bowl in thick, golden slabs. Then the icing sugar; slow, heavy spoonfuls that created a fine dust, coated to her skin. She licked the fingertip of her pinky then washed her hands, drying them on a neatly folded cloth by the sink.
Everything was ready.
Reaching to the top shelf on her tippy-toes, she stretched out her arms for what she needed most, her fingers searching for and eventually finding the base of the stand mixer.
She smiled. Ah, there it is.
She lifted it down from the cupboard and placed the ingredient-filled mixing bowl inside it. She clicked the paddle attachment into the top of the unit and then brought the entire machine down from the counter top and onto the terracotta tiles of the floor, the black power cable trailing from the wall socket behind her.
It was time to mix.
At last.
She took a breath and slipped her hands beneath the hem of her dress. She lifted it slowly, first over her knees, then up her thighs, then up to her waist, gathering it there and pausing. She enjoyed the way the fabric felt against her skin, and forced herself not to rush the process, to feel each moment and appreciate them one by one.
With her dress bunched around her waist, she hooked her thumbs gently inside her panties, the thin cotton, already warm from her body, yielding easily as she eased them down, inch by inch, savoring the way they pulled away from her soft lips. They clung for a moment at the curve of her hips, then gave way fully, gliding over the swell of her ass and past the backs of her knees until she stepped out of them entirely. She pushed them to one side with her foot outstretched in a ballet arch and then left them on the kitchen floor inside-out.
Bending at the waist, she reached down, turning the dial gently. The motor responded with a low purr that vibrated upward through the steel. Simply seeing the motor come to life sent a thrill through her chest, and she gave an involuntary shudder of anticipation. She wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. She knew that. But luckily, she didn’t need to.
She lowered herself to the mixer slowly, her legs parted, her hips straddling it, her hands meeting the cool tile to balance herself. The curve of the metal on the head of the mixer fit perfectly beneath her, just as it always did, and she sighed with pleasure, her thighs flexing, her lips parting slightly as the frequency found its way into her body.
Ah. There it was.
Fuck.
It felt good.
She rocked forward gently, holding the pressure against herself, the smooth top of the mixer angled against her clit as she straddled it, the machine rocking slightly from side to side as it mixed the butter and the sugar. This was, of course, why she insisted on doing all her baking late at night. This was why, despite the advice of her fellow bakers, she still had a large metal mixer from 1968 and not one of those new, silent, low-vibration ones.
She turned the dial up just a notch and felt her nipples harden and her knees soften. She could feel the movements deep in her pelvis now, a churning, rocking, zinging, undulating pulse like nothing else had ever been able to replicate. She’d heard of vibrators, of course, but she was a Good Christian Girl, a certified conservative thinker, and the thought of purchasing such an item filled her with shame and embarrassment.
It was against God.
Anyway, why would she need anything else? This was too much fun. And besides, everyone loved her red velvet cake. At the church fundraiser last spring, at her mother-in-law’s birthday brunch, and at the bake sale at the library. Every time, it was the cake that vanished first, her baking efforts always leaving her with a plate bereft of all but the last remaining crumbs.
Her eyes fluttered shut and she lifted her breasts out of her dress, pulling on her nipples and biting her lip to stop herself moaning.
“Whats your secret?” they would ask in conspiratorial whispers.
Lips would be licked. Eyes would roll with pleasure.
“Oh my god, I need this recipe.”
The metal base rocked beneath her as it continued to mix the batter, the rhythmic thrum of it fucking the pleasure into her. She pulled her dress all the way down now, exposing herself to the waist, her orgasm building, her hair trailing behind her as she started to ride it in earnest, bouncing on it, rubbing herself into it, fucking herself on it, feeling dirty and slutty and naughty and oh fuck she was going to–
No.
Not yet.
She eased off the pressure, lifting herself from the machine slightly, her knees taking her weight again, slowing her breathing, fighting the urge to cum, drawing out her pleasure, taking her time, feeling her legs tremble beneath her.
That’s the thing about baking; you have to take your time. They say a light sponge comes from a light hand, and when they asked for her secret again at the next church bake sale, she would tell them the same thing she always told them.
“There’s no secret. I just have a really good stand mixer.”
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Stories in the book:
Red Velvet
The Dinner Party Host
Appetizer
Too Much Coffee
Compliments To The Chef
Frosting
Spit Roasted
Acorn Sweetleaf: All The Stories ♡
This is the ultimate guide to all my stories and where to find them. 🧡
I will certainly be looking at my kitchen appliances much differently now.
I shall never eat red velvet cake again without considering the orgasm that this baker puts into the recipe