Girly putty under strong hands
Two afternoons later, and I'm already counting the broken ceiling tiles in the Community Hall.
The fluorescent lights hum like dying insects, and somewhere a bingo caller's voice crackles through a speaker that hasn't been cleaned since the nineties.
B-12. N-34.
The numbers blend into a drone that makes my jaw ache from pretending to smile.
The big cheesy one a girl gives a guy they like when he fluffs or prematurely ejaculates.
You know, maybe in twenty minutes he'll deliver.
Janey's parked at a table near the front, absorbed in her scorecard.
She's wearing a white community group top.
Her pen moves with competitive precision.
She hasn't looked up in twenty minutes.
I tried a few squares with Janey.
Well, there was nowhere to hide and play with myself.
But once my dabber smeared purple ink across the card, I didn't care.
I sat on the side, near an open door.
The smells hit.
Crisp as buttered toast.
Spicy.
Sausage rolls.
Hot pastry.
Meaty, golden and alive.
My mouth waters immediately.
It's not subtle; I can feel saliva pool around my tongue, thick and sudden like a mouthful of cum.
I'm sliding out of the chair before I realise I've decided to move.
Janey doesn't notice. Her hand hovers over her card, suspended in competitive calculation.
The kitchen is hot, steamy, industrial.
Metal counters and a floor that sucks at my sneakers.
A man stands at the far end, his back to me, working dough on a floured surface. He's broad—thick shoulders straining against a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Grey hair curls at his collar.
When he turns, wiping his hands on a towel, I see the face that matches the body: weathered, amused, maybe fifty-five, with hands that look like they could crush walnuts.
"You're not supposed to be back here, love," he says, but there's no scolding in it.
His eyes drop to my legs, my shorts, the way my thighs meet denim.
"Health regulations and all that."
"Smelled the sausage rolls," I say, "Couldn't help myself."
He laughs loudly.
"Could eat you up, couldn't I? Hungry little thing."
He turns back to the dough, but I watch his shoulders shift, the awareness of me settling into his posture like heat.
"I've got to wrap up the unused batch. Waste not, want not."
His hands work the dough—press, fold, turn.
They're enormous, fingers thick and dusted white, nails clean but ridged with age.
I watch the tendons move in his wrists, the way his palms cup and squeeze.
My clitty tingles between my legs, a pulse that beats in time with his kneading.
"Big hands," I say.
"Useful for all sorts."
He doesn't turn around.
"Kneading. Gripping."
A pause.
"Massaging."
I push my thighs together. I squeeze my pussy muscles.
His word sits in the air, warm and possible.
"Bet you give a good massage," I say.
Now he turns. His eyes are blue, faded but sharp, and they travel my body like he's starting a recipe.
"Bet your tits would respond beautifully to a proper kneading. Cute little things, aren't they? Perky. Responsive."
I'm not taken aback. The directness of it, the casual filth from a man old enough to be my grandfather's younger brother—it slots into something that feeds in me.
I feel my nipples tighten against my shirt, the fabric suddenly constricted, and I don't bother hiding it.
"Find out," I say.
He moves faster than I expected, crossing the space between us in three steps.
His hands find my breasts through my T-shirt, cupping, weighing, thumbs dragging across the peaks with professional thoroughness.
I arch into it. He's not gentle—he squeezes like he's working dough, firm and rhythmic, and I can feel the heat of his palms through the thin cotton.
"Sensitive," he observes, rolling my nipples between thumb and forefinger until I gasp.
"Like little berries. Ripe."
"Mmm, mmm," I coo.
I reach for his belt, but he catches my wrist with his free hand, still kneading, still pressing.
"Patience, love. The best things take time."
He lifts my shirt over my head, and the kitchen air hits my bare skin—hot as he bends his mouth to my chest.
He suckles, teeth grazing, tongue flicking, and his hands keep working, pressing my breasts together, spreading them apart, treating them like something to be shaped and perfected.
I can feel my wetness soaking through my shorts, the fabric clinging to my slit.
"On the counter," he says, and lifts me there like I weigh nothing.
My shorts come off. My underwear—cotton, practical—gets pushed aside.
He spreads my legs wide, appraising, and I feel the exposure like a physical touch, the kitchen air on my wet cunt, the thrill of being examined.
"Now," he says, reaching for something on the shelf above, "let's see how you rise."
It's a mini-rolling pin, wooden, no longer than my forearm, smooth and tapered at the ends.
He holds it up like a question, and I nod before I can think better of it—before I can think at all.
I like the slutty intent even before it really starts.
The first touch is cold, shocking.
I enjoy the trembles and thigh goosebumps.
He rolls it along my inner thigh, up, up, until the wood presses against my mound's puffy openness.
He doesn't push inside immediately.
He rolls it through my folds, coating it in my wetness, the friction maddening, deliberate.
"Oohh! Fuck! Fuck! That is good! So fuckin' good! Yes! Yes! Oohh! Ahh!"
I can hear myself making sounds— so honest: whimpers, pleas, filthy little noises; way beyond my best faked efforts with college-aged boys.
"Greedy," he says, and pushes the narrower end inside me.
"Uhh! Holy crap! Fuck! Mmm, mmm, mmm."
It's thicker than fingers, smooth, unyielding.
He rolls it slowly, twisting, and the sensation is like nothing I've had—pressure and movement, the wood warming inside me, his other hand working my clit in tighter and tighter, merciless, little circles.
"More," I manage, and he laughs again, that crumbled cookie sound, and pushes deeper.
"Oof! Oof! Yes! Yes! Uhh! Ahh!"
Well, I did think I was overstretched just for a sec.
Fuck he found that spot that makes me frickin' girly swoon.
He finds a pace—roll, press, twist, withdraw.
The rolling pin glistens with my juices, and I can hear the squishy sounds, mixing with my gasps and the distant drone of the bingo caller.
The cook's free hand moves to my breast again, kneading in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation builds like dough rising, like pressure in a sealed container.
He doesn't need to say it, but he's a maestro of the dirty talk.
"Going to make you squirt, like hot melting cheese," he says.
"Going to make you gush and spill like a champagne fountain, all over my counter. Slutty girl with a pretty little box."
The words do something to me—unlock something.
He angles the rolling pin, presses hard against my front wall, and I feel the pressure spike, unbearable, perfect.
"Pop your cork," he commands, and twists hard.
I cum, my body arching off the metal surface, liquid gushing out around the wooden intrusion, soaking my thighs, his hands, the counter.
"Orrghhhh!"
He keeps rolling, keeps pressing, draining the orgasm until I'm shaking, sobbing, oversensitive.
I feel tender as perfectly flambéed meat.
He withdraws the rolling pin slowly, admiringly, and sets it aside.
His fingers, when they touch my engorged pussy, are gentle now—soothing, spreading my wetness like glaze.
"Beautiful," he says. "Risen perfectly."
I lie there, panting, legs spread, until the smell reaches me again—sausage rolls, hot and ready.
Oven-baked.
My stomach growls, loud and ridiculous, and he laughs, helping me sit up, handing me my shirt.
"Youth always needs a feed," he says, and turns to the oven.
He produces a sausage roll—golden, flaky, grease shining on the surface—and squirts tomato sauce over it from a bottle, the red pooling and dripping.
He hands it to me, and I take it with both hands, burning my fingers, not caring.
I bite.
The pastry shatters, meat and spice and fat flooding my mouth.
I chew, swallow, sauce smearing my chin, and I don't care about that either.
I'm ravenous, devouring it in three bites while he watches with that amused, satisfied expression.
"Good?" he asks.
I lick my fingers, one by one, tasting grease and salt and myself.
"Perfect."
In the hall, the bingo caller announces a winner—a shriek of triumph, polite applause.
Janey's voice doesn't rise above the noise.
I pull on my shorts, adjust my shirt, and take the second sausage roll he offers me, wrapped in paper, still warm against my palm.
"Any time you want filling, come back," he says.
I smile as I head through the door, fresh sauce on my chin, biting into the second roll.
Fuck sex, it makes you so hungry.