Sally slipped her panties off her ankles and stood before him, resplendent, nude, breathtaking.
His eyes traveled from her face to her large, firm breasts, a southward-pointing arrow dragging his desire to the wet cleft between her thighs.
“What’s wrong, don’t like what you see?”
Had he hesitated in expressing his admiration for her body? Perhaps there was a half-second delay. “I’m just taking it all in,” Roger said.
His mind traveled from the glistening poonany to that morning’s coffee run. The bakery, row upon row of fresh muffins in their wax paper wrappers–bran, blueberry, chocolate chip. The knife trembling in his hands as he pressed it through the hunk of butter. The sweet anticipation and that first bite.
“What are you, gay are somethin?'” She snickered. “That’s ok, doll. I’ve seen worse. You look like you’re hypnotized.”
“Sorry, it’s just that your pussy…it’s so moist and, well…can I lick it?”
“Sure,” she said, lying back on the bed and spreading her legs. “I don’t mind oral. Just wipe your mouth when you’re through, got it? I don’t like the taste.”
What a bitch, he thought. But that muffin, open before his salivating mouth, as he bent to the task–it was a thing of beauty. He would ignore the crudity of her mind and her thick Bronx accent. Consume, eat, devour was the commandment he obeyed. Enjoy the muffin. Lick the butter, the cream, the jam. Tongue the nooks and crannies.
“You enjoying yourself down there?” she asked. Sally sounded bored. “You mind if I check my messages?”
Christ…but the flavor. Apple, pear, fiber, yeast, tingling his tongue. “Yeah, go for it,” he mumbled through the folds.
Roger had come to his sexual education late. An encounter with a clerk at Peet’s Coffee had sealed a burgeoning bakery fetish, as he and Stephanie fumbled their way to an unsatisfying climax, the hiss of latte being foamed punctuating his moans and her frequent requests that he hurry it up already, her break was over.
It was that smear of butter that did it. On her uniform, along with a tiny patch of cranberry muffin. As he came, Roger’s senses were filled with the mingled odors of her sex, the muffin and that faint but undeniable aroma of lactose.
“I gotta go. Hot date with the recyclables truck driver.” Sally pushed him aside and sat up. “I think you’re gay anyway. Most guys who are more into oral than normal sex are.”
Roger rubbed his neck, wondering if he’d sprained a muscle. His cock was bulging, seeping and purple.
“You know the way out, right?”
He sighed. “Sure.” Making his way down the stairs of the crummy, run-down apartment complex, he considered his options. He could go home and masturbate to the Food Channel, or–a more dangerous but promising idea–raid the dumpster behind Starbuck’s and fuck a muffin in plain sight. The dumpster stood in a back alley which led to an intersection which had a strip bar on one side and a sex shop on the other. Sometimes, if he was lucky, the throwaways were mixed in with soiled undergarments or toys.
The chance of being caught with his cock impaled on a muffin always sharpened the edge of his release. It was worth the risk.
“You again?” The Vice Squad Detective leaned in and blew a blast of fiber oat bran in Roger’s face. He shuddered. The venture had not gone as planned. A delivery driver had spotted him and turned him in.
“Can I speak to my attorney?” Roger asked.
“You have one phone call, use it wisely.”
Roger remembered that his attorney was out of town and besides had stopped returning his calls long ago, after the incident at Whole Foods. “You’re on your own, kid,” were his final words to his client. “Get some help. You got a fetish is all. An edible complex.”
“What is it, son?”
“It happened…I feel so ashamed. I did it again.”
“You had unnatural relations with baked goods?”
“Why do you always have to make it sound so sordid, Mom?”
“Because it’s not right. When I think of how I raised you, or tried to raise you, what with your good-for-nothing father always absent…I shudder to think what you might have done with my apple pies. You didn’t…please tell me you didn’t stick your shlong in the pies. Your father loved those pies until that one day he hated them, blew chunks, ran out the door screaming and never came back. You had a guilty expression. The same face you made when we caught you with the neighbor girl’s bra and my skin cream. You’re my son and I love you, but you’re not well. Are you seeing anybody for your problem? A therapist? A doctor? They do wonders these days. Not that I know anything about mental illness. That’s from your father’s side.”
“Mom, please, I never had…I never put it in your pies. That was the neighbor’s kid. You remember Sammy, right? The guy with the brain head?”
“Oh yeah, the one who looked like one of those shar pei dogs.”
“Right, he started to lose his hair at 15 so he shaved and he looked like a mad scientist from one of those science fiction movies. Seriously, though, you gotta help me.”
“I don’t have bail money for you, Roger. I’m sorry, but since the Whole Foods I’ve been strapped. And worried sick. And missing you. You gotta pull yourself together. Did you read that prayer book I sent you?”
“I did, Mom, and I let go and let God. I attended all those Muffins Anonymous meetings. Keep coming back, they told me. And I really tried. But coffee without a muffin…it just kept haunting me. I couldn’t take the mental pressure. I backslid.”
“Your dear, departed father, God rest his soul, he had a problem like yours.”
“Mom…Dad’s not dead.”
“He is to me. And he should be to you, if you love your mother like she loves her son.”
Roger had an epiphany then. The Vice Detective read it in his face.
“Getting wise to your mother’s manipulations and denial, right?”
“How did you know?”
“Between you, me and the one-way mirror and the security camera, I was once standing in your shoes. But I realized that the only thing that was keeping me from a normal life, away from the…”–he gestured, drawing a cake in the air–“was my inner strength. It was in me all along to take responsibility for my own actions. Once I understood that, I truly let go. I no longer get a stiff one when I see a triple layer chocolate frosted…never mind.”
From that day forward, Roger was a new man. He still on occasion woke up in a puddle of semen, the vixen Muffin Girl still fixed on his dream-cock, but once he’d had his coffee and scone, he felt 100% better. That, and shock treatment, and time spent in a federal correctional facility, set him on the right path.
Author’s Note: Muffinophilia is no joke. Please seek help if this story resonates with you or someone you love.