The grey sky. The Eiffel Tower. The tourists. The chilliness. Aureole Baker, standing in the middle of it all, frowning her chapped lips and wishing she wasn’t there at all. In fact, if a brochure, sailing on a gust of wind, had emerged from the grey and smacked Aureole in her big fat Anne Hathaway nose, advertising a stay-in-bed, back-at-home screening of Ratatouille to her round brown eyes, Aureole, after peeling the brochure from her face, regaining her balance, and reading the brochure to figure out exactly what time the plane was leaving, would have caught a taxi, read the address of the Parisian dorm she had scribbled on her hand to the driver, arrived at the dorm, asked the driver to wait while she went inside, happily packed her bags, returned to the taxi, told the driver “Aéroport Paris-Charles de Gaulle rapidement”, arrived at the airport, handed the driver the fare, bought the plane ticket, skipped through customs, and boarded her noon flight back to the States. As soon as she would have disembarked the plane in Minnesota, Momma and Daddy Baker would have been there to meet her. Aureole would have hugged them both. And together they would have driven off to their three-story suburban home to live fantastically ever after, the sun smiling on their reunion.
As the situation stood, no brochures were falling from the sky, the grey clouds were drifting, the tourists were milling, and the Eiffel Tower...the Eiffel Tower just stood there. The persistent reality of Aureole’s situation forced her to shut the mental pop-up book that illustrated her return to the States, the one that she had added scene after scene to to make the escape more than just fantasy, the one that she had even titled Aureole, a Warm Bed, and a Disney movie. Making a mental note to herself to write all this down, Aureole was distracted by her student exchange friends who were yacking about the Tower, and the memory of her pop-up book retreated into the grey mist of forgetfulness.
“You know some American woman married La Tour Eiffel?” asked blond Laurentine. “ It was a grey, chilly day like this one but she said that La Tour lit a fire in her soul. She said La Tour made her feel warm all over. So she held a commitment ceremony and got her last name changed from Labrie to Eiffel. You would think this isn’t common but there’s a whole organization of people who believe that objects like these have a spirit and a soul and marry them. Isn’t that crazy?”
Chubby Rolande replied, “It is. I mean if I believed that how could I eat knowing that at any moment I could be chewing and swallowing my soul mate. What do you think about that Aureole?” Chubby Rolande poked Aureole’s slender arm.
But Aureole didn’t respond. Her imagination, having been sparked by her friend’s talk, was showing her another scene for her pop-up book. Momma Baker and her daughter were putting a bowl filled with chocolate bars in the microwave as Aunty Baker, Momma’s professional chef sister, was prepping the pastry bags and the mini Eiffel Tower molds on the marble countertop.
“If you don’t snap out of it, Aureole, we’re going to leave you here,” blond Laurentine said.
Aureole blinked. She squeaked, “I’m here.”
Laurentine repeats her question. “Do you think the La Tour Eiffel has a spirit and a soul?”
“It could. Have you ever seen the Beauty and the Beast? In that movie, there is a talking teapot and a talking candlestick. And no one thinks that is that weird.”
“Yeah, that’s not weird at all,” Rolande and Laurentine, laughing, sarcastically replied in sync.
Aureole gave the Eiffel Tower a second look. With some color and decoration, this object could be magical. Fill in the holes and paint the whole thing purple and it could a princess’ tower. Then it would have the attention of Aureole Baker. Then she would have declined any brochure’s proposal that came out of the grey. She would have stood her ground under the Tower, held her mouth open in awe, gawking, and gladly written an alternate chapter in her imagined pop-up book.
She would have thought if I were locked away up there by some disgruntled king, a prince would have to come. I would be wearing a pretty light blue dress. It would billow from my waist. My hair would be much longer almost down to my hip and braided. The prince would be scaling the tower barehanded, the wind whipping his fashionable hair. The thrill of the challenge facing the prince, stirring up his adrenaline and blood would short circuit his brain, so he would reach my window and look in on me combing my long brown locks and fall instantly in love.
That’s what the classic psych experiment say. Aureole mentally turns a new page in her book. Put a man in a life threatening situation, for instance a drawbridge over a thousand mile drop. There are tropical birds, white and pink, flapping their wings and flitting over the man’s head. They are reminding him of the steep ride down to the river flowing beneath his feet. Make him meet an attendant, a woman preferably, on the other side. She can appear anyway you wish: chubby, blond, or paper thin. Just have her give him a survey and her number, in case he has any further questions. Wait for the phones to go ringing off the hooks. Because they most undoubtedly will.
People delight in danger. You have to put something on the line to get their attention otherwise you’re just another face in the crowd -- Aureole thought as she rummaged in her backpack for her camera. Where was it? Setting the backpack on the pavement, she took a knee to dig deeper. Her shin-high light brown galoshes wouldn’t quite bend at the toe and her skin-tight jeans impaired her knee bend somewhat, but she got a hold of the strap to her camera bag and pulled. The camera bag dangled victorious from her wrist.
She brought her other hand across to unzip the bag when she realized that her student exchange friends that she so desperately needed to take profile pictures of her in front of the majestic and royal Eiffel Tower had disappeared. Hesitating, she held her hand on the zipper. Do I know how to get back? She put her hands in the backpack, the camera bag dangling from her wrist. A wallet, a sunglass case, a couple of scrunchies she turned over with her hands until she got hold of her map. Mind at ease, she left the map where it lay. If I’m going to be put in a situation like this, I might as well take advantage of it. My French skills need the practice. And if I have to I can fall back on the map. Just in case.
Having unzipped the camera bag, turned on her pink touch screen camera, and risen to her feet, Aureole searched for the best place to snap pictures of her and the Eiffel Tower. She walked far enough away from the Tower to get all of it in frame. To take the photo she directed the camera at her and the landmark. Guesstimating her location relative to the landmark, she shimmied to the side, so everyone could see where she had been. She smiled and said cheese.
After she took the photo, she consulted it. The photo’s gray skies foretold rain. The resulting moisture in the air was not doing wonders for her long brown hair. She was giving the camera too much teeth. Her nose looked too big. And even her dark blue winter jacket couldn’t hide the fact that she was flat chested. She adjusted the angle of her shot, so she could only be seen from the neck up. Through restrained lips, she said cheese.
Again she checked her photo. Satisfied, she took a few more before slipping the camera in the bag and dropping the bag in her backpack. I don’t have to worry about anyone’s schedules. There is no place that I need to be. I think I’ll just wander around and window shop until I get hungry. She passed tres elegante clothing shops, outdoor cafés, and Parisian boys with tender eyes, well-combed hair, and generous biceps.
Aureole had had a boyfriend back in the States. She had treasured his innocence: it had taken him a month just to ask her if he could hold her hand. And once he had held it, he wanted to do it again and again. Not long after, he had turned as clingy as an addict. Long love letters he had e-mailed her which she hadn’t known how to respond to, so she hadn’t. When she did break up with him, he had bawled and bawled. She had remained strong.
Together they had seemed like an odd couple anyway at six feet and one hundred twenty pounds each. She had always been trim and fit. Her parents had pushed her to be a gymnast at an early age. What she had gained in flexibility and muscle, she had lost in curviness. Her hips retained a slight womanly swell. But the bulge of her breasts and buttocks smoothed. Like a rolling pin, the years flattened out Aureole.
The Parisian boys didn’t look her way. And she was convinced that even if she back handsprung down the sidewalk, segued into a three hundred and sixty degree corkscrew, landed in a handstand, she wouldn’t get their eyes on her.
Her boyfriend had been obsessed with weight gain himself. He had cycled through a diet of raw eggs and Dunkin’ Donuts with no results. What had he seen in her if he couldn’t stomach his own lack of weight? Companionship? A mirror image? Neither had dared to suggest sex. Aureole had broken her hymen not with him but a gym mat.
All the talk about gaining weight had never sunk into Aureole. It was an annoyance that she stowed away and, if necessary, sidestepped. She dressed fashionable and judged others by the same criterion. It didn’t matter if a Parisian boy had a six pack or a pair of burgeoning pecs. If the Parisian boy couldn’t bother to sculpt his hair, shave, and wear a collared shirt, she wouldn’t look their way. She especially didn’t take a glance at whatever they were packing in their pants.
The sign on the window beside her read Puffy Pastry Shop. Rows and rows of croissants, cinnamon rolls, eclairs, and creme puffs filled the window’s shelves. The door to the shop opened, and a woman in a low cut peasant dress and a bearded red-faced man passed in front of Aureole. The woman looked like a busty milk maid and the man, a lecherous lumberjack.
Milk white breasts so large they are about to spill out of the milk maid’s top. Dark spots turning the milk maid’s white top see through. Two brown nipples like two lumps of brown sugar trying to poke two holes in the top. As Aureole was noting all this, the man raised his hand, Aureole thought, to cover the top’s growing transparency.
But instead he squeezed one. Was he trying to pump the milk out of her? He fondled the breast through the top with no care for avoiding the public eye, with no common decency. Milk leaked from the nipple. If he had been listening, would he have heard the nipple speaking to him with that milk? The top might as well have been a wet sheet of paper what with all the milk it absorbed. It was totally soaked and letting milk splatter on the sidewalk. He increased speed and force, bringing his other hand in to help with the other breast. The milk maid’s face was growing red. She was clenching the fists at her side.
Surprise. The man ripped aside the woman’s top, exposing her breasts to Aureole. The nipples on those fat orbs stared right back. As large as the orbs were they did not sag, they sat buoyant and proud on the milk maid’s chest. The milk maid’s hands were getting fidgety. Her fingers were fiddling with themselves. The man leaned in, kissed, motor-boated the breasts, and suckled one of the milking nipples whose twin was spraying milk every which way. The milk was sticking to the man’s shaggy hair and beard.
The woman’s hands seemed to have made their minds up and were headed for the bottom of the milk maid’s dress, hiking it up her thigh creeping closer and closer to her sex, when Aureole, cheeks blushing and ears red with embarrassment, put a hand over her eyes. She couldn’t, however, block out the moaning.
“O yes, o yes, thank you Jacque.” Aureole heard a zipper get unzipped, a shuffling out of underwear, the wet smack of penetration, the genitals pounding against each other, and the milk maid scream, “Fuck your milky Laurentine. Your dick is getting her all warm and dripping. Your dick is churning her insides. Fuck her until she creams. O yes, Jacque, fuck yes.”
Laurentine? That couldn’t be the one I know. She definitely doesn’t look the same and her accent is too relaxed. Maybe I should take another look. Aureole spread her fingers enough to see the bearded man’s hairy ass, hairy testicles, and through the man’s hairy legs the milk maid’s swaying breasts and her long blond hair. Aureole turns aside her eyes. O, gross. Hasn’t he heard of hygiene? I’ve seen Americans with more modesty than those Europeans. And that woman, the only things that woman has in common with Laurentine are her name and her blond hair. Woman’s clothes in New York may be scandalous but, at least, no one is having sex in the streets.
While Aureole was looking at the sidewalk, the man was starting to savagely grunt. Aureole felt something brush against her and she raised her eyes to find that the man had pulled out of the milk maid and had bumped into Aureole with his ass. He was stroking his genitalia, preparing to blow. Taking hold of the pastry shop door, Aureole opened it, got on the other side of it, and shut out the man whose genitalia was shooting fluid at the milk maid’s exposed ass, already dripping.
An antique bell rang as she entered the shop. She watched through the glass as the hairy naked man snatched up the milk maid whose wet dress was bunched up around her waist and carried her across the street to a sausage shop. I guess they are getting a room like they should have gotten in the first place.
“Can I help you, mademoiselle?” the server asked. Aureole turned to the voice and discovered it belonged to a plain teenage girl with black hair and glasses. Although a head shorter than Aureole, she shared Aureole’s characteristic skinniness. “I’m very sorry for the show outside. We’ve had some kinky customers ever since the sausage shop opened.” Aureole walked to the counter and set her backpack down.
Aureole complained, “It was just unacceptable. How could you let people like that eat here?”
The server’s eyes flashed. “They’re not like that when they come in. Why don’t you order something? It’ll be on the house. For your inconvenience.”
“I would appreciate that. Anything you recommend?”
“Everything’s good. Pick as you wish.”
The server pointed at the chalkboard, hanging behind her. Following the server’s pointer finger, Aureole read the chalkboard where all the special items were written in:
Double Stuffed Eclair (neon pink chalk) - for those who like to have their mouths full
Chocolate Creme Puff (neon yellow chalk) - for those who like sweet surprises
See Yourself Cinnamon Roll (neon blue chalk) - for those who like to be flexible
Criss Cross Croissant (neon orange chalk) - for those who like a little of both
Staring at the chalkboard, Aureole pondered. What’s with these names and descriptions? Did I walk into a cafe of New York hipsters or better yet one of mystical wizards? Someone had a lot of fun trying to write a poetic spell book. I should play along, get something special. When in Rome. No, when in Paris. The Double Stuffed and the Criss Cross I can rule out since I don’t want anything to slow me down when I start walking around again. And I’m already flexible enough, so I’ll go with the Chocolate Creme Puff.
Aureole parted her chapped lips, “Excuse moi, could I have one Chocolate Creme Puff?”
“Yes, of course, right away.” The server went to the glass display beside the counter and pulled out a massive white plate which she handed Aureole over the counter. The Chocolate Creme Puff took up an eighth of it. Aureole carried it to a wooden table. The wood creaked as she pulled out the chair. She set the plate on the table. She sat. Three fans lazily twirled the shop’s air.
“They didn’t give me a fork,” she mumbled to herself. I guess it’s small enough that it won’t be impolite to eat with my hands. She shifted out of her jacket’s sleeves and shed the jacket on the chair’s back. In her purple turtleneck, baby blue scarf wound round her neck, Aureole leaned forward in her seat, took hold of the pastry, and lifted it to her lips.
She took a small bite. But when she bit into it, it leaked chocolate creme from its sides. To prevent any of the chocolate creme from spilling, she inhaled more of the pastry. She didn’t want to return a messy chocolate plate. The whole action reminded her of her boyfriend’s voracious donut consumption. He would knock back half a dozen in a sitting without a care as to what he was doing to his blood pressure, to his ability to get his penis hard. There he was in her mental pop-up book, sitting at her Momma’s kitchen table, with a boner straining his gym shorts. And there she was across the table, sending her foot out to probe.
Did I just think that? She gulped. What do I care about his ability to procreate? If I feel the need, I can just do the splits in my gymnastic spandex. Spreading my vaginal lips to the cool mat, I can creep my fingers down the length of my leg, creeping closer and closer to my anatomy...Why go there when I can do it right here? I am stuffed in these jeans. It’s getting stuffy in here. I should get out of them.
By this time, she had leaned in so far that her buttocks was no longer in the chair and she was unconsciously sucking out the creme from the pastry just as the lumberjack sucked out the milk from the milk maid’s tits. She was plain preying on that poor Chocolate Creme Puff as it poured its life into her. Aureole was not used to making a scene. It was so unlike her. She didn’t want to draw the server’s eyes, but she was way past that point. She was becoming an illustration in her own book. It went something like this.
Title: Aureole Face Fucks a Pastry
Page One: It’s on the Tip of my Tongue
What Happened: Rolling her tongue along her lips, Aureole discovered the cracks in her lips were disappearing. The lips also seemed to be inflating. She held the pastry at her side as she leaned in and kissed the plate. Her moistened lips left an imprint of red lipstick. She raised her head, letting her tongue wander across these new improvements. Are these what the boys called puffy blow job lips? She slipped her tongue back in, opened her mouth, and went back to stuffing her face.
What the Book Shows: When you open the first page of Aureole’s pop-up book, a pair of puffy blow job lips comes out to kiss you from a background as white as the plate she kissed. Many girls might take these pair of lips as an invitation to get their pussies eaten out and, with this idea in mind, rub the pages against their pussy lips. Some boys may even pull out their dicks and try to jam it within the cut-outs. The author, Aureole Baker, advises against this. It will only diminish your book’s retail value and get you paper cuts.
Page Two: Undressing the Former Gymnast from the Bottom Up
What Happened: The skin-tight jeans tore down the pant legs as her thighs and calfs swelled to stripper size. It was a clean and quick cut of the jeans. One second they clung tight to her skin and the next they were hanging loose in the pastry shop’s air-conditioning.
The split jean material flapped like curtains, giving the server plenty of leg to look at. And her eyes were glassing over. Her throat tightening. She was reaching for the keys beside the register.
Aureole’s thigh and calf muscles flexed as they converted their memory of treading a balance beam to walking in heels, climbing ropes to pole dancing, and cartwheels to Kama Sutra sex positions.
What the Book Shows: Aureole, in her turtleneck and scarf, squats. Her lower body makes the shape of an M, crotch at the center. If you pull a little arrow at the bottom of the page, the strips of jean material, clinging to her new jean shorts, flap on the page. If you pull a slightly bigger arrow, Aureole rises from her squat and after she is standing, legs straight, she slowly drops her ass to the floor.
Page Three: With All that Ass Hanging Out
What Happened: Pressure building on Aureole’s backside. There was a tug of war going on at the ass crease of these jean shorts. Aureole’s pair of swelling ass cheeks were vying for who would spill out first. But since they were coming in at the same fast rate, all they were doing was turning the jean material into spaghetti strings. And as the ass cheeks continued to push, they popped spaghetti string after spaghetti string, revealing more and more pieces of Aureole’s frilly pink boyshorts which were brimming with ass cheek. The frilly pink boyshorts let the cool air-conditioning run across Aureole’s pussy and asshole. She shivered. She became conscious of an activity more pleasurable than pastry consumption.
The server got hold of the keys and considered for a moment not bothering to lock the pastry shop at all and just sending her hand on a quick masturbatory excursion down south instead.
What the Book Shows: The more that you spread open the pages, the more Aureole’s jean shorts come apart, the more ass cheek and pussy you see behind a thin veil of pink fabric. With the two halves of the page lying on your lap, you can spot two massive domes. They have risen like two lumps of dough. For this page and this page only, if you stick your dick between these and cum carefully, you can keep the retail value of your book intact. Sorry, ladies.
Page Four: Let’s Get You Out of Them Jeans
What Happened: Swollen into a teardrop shape, Aureole’s ass cheeks opened up a large enough hole that the jeans shorts could no longer maintain any attachment with Aureole and everything below her waistline, excluding the boyshorts, simply slid sensually down her thighs and calves.
She sort of pumped her legs back and forth as if she were on a slow motion stair climber to step out of the falling jean material with her galoshes still on. But some of it got caught around the toe of her one of galoshes.
She lifted her leg out behind her with all the grace and poise of a ballerina and began to kick at the air with her foot. This sent ripples through her ass, changing the tone of her performance from artfully seductive to downright blue ball inducing.
At least that’s how the server felt. She was going to cum right there and then without even having to put a hand inside her panties. She tried to stymy the feeling by holding tighter to the key and putting one foot in front of the other on her way to the door which she had resolved to lock. How could she pass up on this piece of ass?
The only clue that the jeans had ever been on Aureole was a snug ring of jean material sitting atop her ass. That jean waistband couldn’t slide down her now prominent and curvaceous ass. But then her hip bones widened, and the button holding this ring of jean to her shot off, and nothing remained except the boyshorts which were digging into her ass cheeks. They were gathering up into a thong on her back and her front.
What the Book Shows: Aureole is standing in profile. There is a sliding arrow by her thigh which if pulled to the end of its half circle will tear off the jean material from her waistline to her calves. If you can pull it fast enough, you can even see her teardrop shaped ass jiggle in her boyshorts.
Page Five: Those Boyshorts Didn’t Last Long / Bare Bottomed in a Turtleneck
What Happened: One hand holding the pastry to her lips, Aureole sent the other to remedy the discomfort downstairs. With one strong pull, she ripped away the boyshorts and politely rubbed at her pussy to the thoughts of the giant phallus that the Eiffel Tower represented.
She rocked into her hand with a rocking horse’s knack for poise and predictability. The milk white tower of childhood fantasies held strong in her mind. It wouldn’t cum down yet.
The prince, climbing the Eiffel Tower, was trying to keep his cartoonish, red hot, ready to blow cock from brushing the railing. He couldn’t, however, stop the pre cum from leaking. Princess Aureole, her tits squashed on the Eiffel Tower’s railing, looked down and worked her manicured nails between her pussy lips. Pussy juice trailed down her thighs, soaked her light blue dress, and pooled on the floor.
The psych study participators had lost all subtlety and were pouncing like pole vaulters, their cocks ready to land in a wet hole, on the women at the end of the bridge.
Aureole was lying in bed watching a porno version of Ratatouille with a vibrator buzzing under the sheets. Her Momma called from downstairs. Her Momma wanted her to come and make chocolate treats in the kitchen. Aureole finished up her orgasm and came to the kitchen. The Eiffel Tower molds had, of course, become phalluses. And Aureole’s Momma and Auntie were total sex pot lesbians. Momma was sitting on the countertop while Auntie ate her pussy out. When Auntie spotted Aureole, she held up her finger and curled it to get Aureole to come closer. Auntie looked Aureole over.
“You do know you left your vibrator inside yoooooou,” Auntie was being carried away by Momma’s tonguing. Aureole looked down and sure enough she had left the vibrator still in there.
Shoving the chair back, Aureole stood and bent at the hips, sticking her ass in the air and placing her face closer to the plate. Her masturbating hand was beginning to get plain rude, putting fingers in her ass and pussy where clearly they did (or was it didn’t) belong. And her ass must have picked up some multicultural language as it wobbled with a mind of its own. She would feel the ass fat fly up and fall so light. Tight ass muscles.
Her Auntie fumbled around in the molds. She pulled out a thirteen inch chocolate colored vibrator. “I see you’ve got that vanilla seven incher. What you really want is thissssssss,” Auntie was being fondled by one of Momma’s hands and one of Aureola’s stray hands. Aureole takes the vibrator. She runs her hands down the length of it before flipping the switch and plunging it in her empty asshole. She should have known her Auntie was the kinky type. Aunties always were.
What the Book Shows: XXX Material of all sorts. You name it. Step right up and pull the arrow. Watch naked Aureole shake her booty. Finger herself to orgasm. But, at this point, you might as well throw the pop-up book out the window and watch pornography. Any childish pretensions Aureole had of writing a pop-up book have gone. The last chapter’s sharing a thirteen inch vibrator with Momma.
End Aureole’s Pop-Up Book
The turtleneck was getting constricting. Her bra straps pulled tight to her shoulders. She wasn’t sure if she could breath. She took a deep breath and she heard her bra snap. O, hell, here goes the show. There was a weight on her chest that she had not known before and it was growing without the support of her bra.
She thrust herself a few times at the table to see if she could get rid of it, each time driving her hand farther and farther in her holes. The weight swayed with her, sliding her erect nipples up and down, side to side along the fabric of the turtleneck. She could not take the agitation any longer and she came.
The orgasm presented her with a moment of clarity. Tilting her head toward her boobs, she watched in erotic fascination as her nipples poked holes in the strained material. Her boobs were lifting the shirt, exposing more and more of her waist. The bottom of the turtleneck passed her bellybutton and crept up to the bottom of her boobs.
She could see half of each of her boobs sticking out the turtleneck and as time passed only more of them were becoming visible. Finally the fabric of the purple turtleneck stretched to such an extent that her boob flesh was fully visible. At that point, the threads ripped and Aureole’s big boobs were free floating.
From this angle, she could see her hair had turned jet black, both on her head and on a small triangle above her pussy. She put her fingers on her as large as Hershey kisses nipples and twisted the knobs. Two streams of milk leaked on the table. The nipples were draining but she could see her tits were still growing. They did not stop until each one matched the circumference of the plate and her nipples were the size of cookies.
Still recovering, she placed her tits on the table and breathed. That was one hell of a creme puff. I’ve left gymnastics forever and I passed Disney Princess territory somewhere in the last five minutes. Rappers are going to be looking for me to shake my ass in their next video. One of those video vixens. With her tits and face planted on the table, she gave her ass a jiggle. My adventure’s just taken an explosive turn.
“Did you enjoy our services, mademoiselle?” Aureole looked up, through the tangle of her black hair, to see the mousy server standing over her. She was popping a serious boner. Aureole could see it through the server’s apron. I guess that explains the Criss Cross Croissant.
“Yes, won’t you have other attendants to serve?” The words flowed effortlessly out of Aureole’s mouth. She had never spoke French with such confidence.
The server withdrew a set of keys from her apron then pocketed them. “Your transformation got me so excited. I had to lock up.” She started to stroke her erect cock through the apron. “If you don’t mind working off my steam I won’t get you pregnant. You can see for yourself.”
“I trust you. A ball less cock can’t be any weirder than the ghetto booty I’m sporting.” Aureole’s ass jiggled confirmation.
Lifting the apron over her head, the server said, “So this is ok with you?”
“It will be my first time. But I am in Paris. Aren’t I? And this may be all the adrenaline speaking but I can’t imagine any one better to break me in.”
Having shuffled out of her pants, shirt, and underwear, the server revealed a seven inch long cock. There were no balls. She worked her hand up and down the shaft as she replied, “I can’t tell you this is my first time. But I am honored to be your first one. My name is Marléne. Might I know who I have the pleasure of fucking?”
“Aureole.”
“An interesting name. It seems to fit you better now.”
“Very funny.”
Marléne positioned herself at Aureole’s backside. She warned, “Alright, get ready. This may get a little rocky.” Aureole took hold of either side of the table and tensed for entry. Marléne slid her cock into Aureole’s vagina. She began pushing into Aureole, but Aureole didn’t push back. “You may want to loosen up a little.”
Aureole lifted her hands from the table. She didn’t know where to put them, so she placed them on her tits. The sensations overtook her, and she massaged her tits while Marléne picked up speed. Her ass started talking to the dick, setting everything in motion. Aureole leaked milk on the table.
Marléne moaned in ecstasy. Aureole lifted one of her legs and raised it straight in the air between her and Marléne. She brought a hand around to work in and out her asshole. She used her other hand to massage Marléne’s breasts. Aureole twisted her head to make eye contact with Marléne. The connection drove both of them over the edge. They came in joy.
Leaning on Aureole’s back, Marléne breathed to the beat of her lover’s breath. Aureole burped. A small string of chocolate goo stuck itself out of Aureole’s mouth, looked around, and then slipped back in. What the fuck? How much more can I dream?
You’re not dreaming.
Well, of course, I didn’t need to be reminded of that.
I am your Chocolate Creme Puff. I will be here to give you anything you need.
All my clothes are gone. How about some of those?
As you say.
Black latex spread across Aureole’s tits. Once her tits were drawn tight to her, the latex covered her stomach and ass. It left room for Marléne’s cock. The latex also left open a pattern of diamond sized holes on either of Aureole’s sides.
Thank you.
It’s the best I can do for you, the one who gave me life.
What else can you do?
Anything that has to do with chocolate. I can pump your tits full of chocolate. I could fill Marléne’s dick with chocolate. Stuff like that.
Will that make her bigger?
Yeah.
Why don’t you double her pleasure?
So twice the length?
Yes, of course.
The amount of Marléne’s dick sticking out Aureole’s pussy grew and grew until she was no longer leaning on Aureole’s latex back. She stirred because she was trying to lean on air. It may also have been all the stimulation she was getting from her seven extra inches of cock that stirred her as well.
“What’s going on? You don’t want me sleeping on you?” Marléne groggily muttered.
Aureole let her pussy do the talking. She pushed off the table trying to take more and more of Marléne’s length inside her. She was huffing and puffing. It was more of an exertion than she imagined. When she ran out of room, she drew upon the power of the Chocolate Creme Puff and the Chocolate Creme Puff more than willingly provided its services giving her more space in her cervix. She packed in the dick. Marléne rammed in her sleep. Aureole didn’t need any additional stimulation. For once in a long while she had become content. The skies could remain as grey as they wanted. Aureole had the power of the Chocolate Creme Puff.
I’m not sure who I’ve fallen in love with. Marléne or you?
There is no reason to pick and choose. Both of us can share you equally.
Aureole has put her past behind her. She has found a potential friend and lover in Marléne and an ally in a chocolate pastry. But the questions still remain. Who is Jacque, the bearded man? What is it about the sausage shop? Was that the Laurentine that Aureole knew? If so, what happened to Rolande? With the range of desserts at Aureole’s disposal, she will learn these secrets and more next time on Creme Puff.