Half Baked

Adele batted his hand away.

"Hey! Stop that."

He put his hand back on her tit. He had his other hand in her hair, holding her head as he kissed her, a teeth grinding kiss.

"Jesus Andy!"

He fumbled the buttons on her blouse, tugged at the thin fabric.

"Never done it here before. Done it everywhere else but here, baby. This is gonna be something you never forget."

She wasn't wearing a front-clasp bra. She always wore that bra for him. He wrapped his arms around her, slipped the catch, slid his hands under the cups, squeezed her tits - hard.

"Andy! Stop! Someone will see!"

"Ain't nobody here but us chickens. Come on."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her up the metal steps. Up onto the platform.

"You wanted to learn the #1 mixer. You will ... up close and personal."

He finished stripping her. She didn't resist, didn't cooperate either. Time was, not long ago, that she'd be on her knees with his cock in her mouth. Seems she always had his cock in her mouth. Rarely in her pussy he'd realized. A few times, maybe a half dozen. She let him finger her, though. Most times they were together either his fingers were in her pussy or his cock was in her mouth. That's the way it'd been for two months.

Naked she wasn't particularly attractive. She had a piggy face, chubby cheeks, pushed up nose. She had a lumpy body heading toward fat. She was only 23. He tried to imagine her at 30, God forbid 40. And like a lot of Latinas she wore her clothes a size too small. But the bras she wore emphasized her tits. She had nice tits. Kind of a distraction from the rest.

He stepped closer to her, she stepped back, stepped back into empty space. She slid down the side of the shiny steel bowl and came up with a thump against the beater.

"Ow! Hey!"

He grabbed a container of shortening, removed the lid. He upended it over the girl's head. Thick white globs oozed down her face, over her tits.

"What's the fuck! Andy! What the fuck are you doing!"

He reached over to the control panel, tapped a button a few times. The beater swatted the girl around the bottom of the bowl. She tried to scrabble out, but couldn't get a purchase. She kept slipping to the bottom.

She continued her verbal assault as he ripped open a bag of sugar, dumped it onto her. Again he jogged the beater around. Again she made a circuit of the bowl until she was below him. Patches of white alternated with glistening oil on her chubby body.

The flour came next. A cloud of white enveloped the girl. She sputtered, gasping for air. He moved the beater around again, emptied a few more bags until she was waist deep in the mix.

He pulled the pipe over and let a couple of gallons of water into the bowl.

"I'd hang on if I were you."

He dialed the speed to low, pressed the start button. The beater swatted at the girl, driving her through the thickening mass. He stopped the machine. The girl flailed a bit, groping for the beater, managed to wrap her arms around it. He started the mixer again.

She hung on for a minute or so, the dough forming, thickening, sticking to her, coating her.

She fell into the mass, panting.

"You picked the wrong guy to fuck with, bitch. Your daddy was smart. Paid for an MBA on the condition that you prove yourself at another company before he'd take you in. Thought you could fuck your way to the top. First me and now Zack. I don't know if I'm more pissed that you used me or that you're fucking my brother in law. If he wasn't married to my sister I might have let it slide. But there's no way you're going to fuck things up for them. One kid, another on the way. Uh uh. I had a nice long talk with him. Let's just say that's he's seen the light."

He jabbed the button again. The beater made its way around. Sometimes she managed to grab it for a few seconds, more often she was part of the sticky mixture.

He kept the machine running, watched her tumbling around. She disappear for a few seconds, then come up wiping dough from her face, gasping for breath. But the beater took its toll and she was more in the dough than out. He stopped the machine. He could see her head covered in white. He grabbed the wooden paddle and scraped it across her face. Her mouth popped open.

Down on the floor he wheeled the baking pan over to the bowl. He upended the bowl and the dough and the girl slid onto the pan. The mixture was thick, glue-like, and he smeared it around, positioning the girls arms and legs. He used the paddle to scrape the remaining dough out and onto the girl. He smoothed it until she was covered in a nice even coating. He rolled the pan to the oven.

He checked the temperature, jogged the control until a metal shelf appeared, slid the pan onto it, and pressed the start button. The pan and the girl disappeared into the inky bowels.

A few minutes later he heard a muffled shriek. The screams continued for several minutes. Then silence.

He triple checked the temp: 130f. About the temperature of a nice, hot shower. Hot, but not burning hot. Hot enough to drive off most of the liquid, make the dough hard, but not baked.

When she emerged he slid the pan onto a dolly. The dough had hardened into a solid mass of white broken only by the reddish O of her mouth. She was panting, short, shallow breaths. He trundled the dolly out onto the loading dock. He slid the safety gate open and upended the pan into the trash compactor. The hardened dough broke it several places revealing patches of pink skin. He tossed her clothes in with her. Checked her one more time to make sure she was still breathing. She was.

Sometime over the next hour or so she'd come to her senses, break free, find her clothes, climb out of the bin. He couldn't imagine that she'd show her face again. But if she did there was always plan B.

 

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