A baker sticks her finger in someone else’s pie.
Ella knew why baking was traditionally seen as a man’s job – bread dough was like a woman: lovely, unpredictable, having to be coaxed into revealing its secrets. And that was why, among all the men, she alone was a female master baker. That’s what she told herself at 3am when she crawled out of bed and into the shower, washing with unscented soap and rubbing her hair with plain shampoo before plaiting it tightly. No scent or perfume touched her flesh when she was baking; she always smelt of plain Ella.
She didn’t linger in the shower to test the responses of her body’s soft crevices – there was time for that later, between first and second proving. She lived over the bakery, so all she had to do was walk downstairs in her white tunic and blue and white checked trousers to begin her daily tasks.
First she divided the yeast mix she’d made the previous night and added the special ingredients that made her morning breads so delightful: vanilla- infused milk for the brioche; honey and cinnamon for the crescent rolls; nuts and seeds for the wholemeal bread. Then she kneaded each batch, driving her knuckles deep into the floury mix as if punishing it, or herself.
As she worked, the kitchen heated up until her joints and sinews were as elastic and pliable as the dough. Her skin was hot and dewy, her fingers tingled and her plait was swinging rhythmically against her spine, like a lover’s caressing hand. Except there was no lover, and hadn’t been for years. Ella believed her love of bread turned other women off. She was sure they could see that her affair with dough and pastry consumed her and that there would be little left over for a flesh-and-blood lover.
Though it was true that she was obsessed, everything she made was based on women, sex and lust. Danish pastries whorled like a moist tongue exploring a tender ear, but also rose, soft and proud, like a young breast. Cinnamon rolls were as plump and sweet as a woman’s thighs. Cream horns curled like fingers wrapping themselves into a fist in the throes of orgasm before relaxing into the pliant elegance of a woman sighing in satisfied contentment.
Her own special creation, dilara baklava, was based on the softly curling thatch of a woman’s pubic mound. Triangular in shape, the baklava’s filo pastry held a blend of honey, fig paste and grated apple concealed beneath gentle waves of pastry that curled like hair and were brushed with sesame oil and brown sugar, so that they glowed dark and sticky and demanded to fill the viewer’s mouth with pleasure. Ella knew that dilara meant ‘lover’ in Turkish, having long ago had a brief fling with a Turkish woman when researching the creation of perfect baklava. The relationship hadn’t lasted, but the recipe she’d created was an absolute classic.
Ella looked down. Her fingers were deep in the dough, unconsciously pressing and kneading it as if a woman’s flesh lay under her hands. She scowled – although bread was like a woman, it usually needed more discipline and less tenderness. She slapped the dough into shape and set it to prove with the rest of the batches. Now, for an hour or so, her time was her own.
Home Cooking
She dragged the camp bed out from under the huge wooden table. It was placed there for this special hour every day. Shucking off her white coat, under which she wore only a cotton vest, Ella ran her hands down her body, feeling her heat, the power of her ribs and hips, the strength of her thighs. This was her moment.
Before lowering herself to the springy surface of the bed, she pulled off the vest, kicked off her white kitchen clogs and pushed down her trousers, leaving them in a heap on the floor. She kept her white knickers on, though – she liked a little friction. As she lay back, hearing the springs creak, she put her feet on either side of the bed, arching them so that her toes touched the floor but her heels were in the air. Now she put the middle finger of her right hand on her clit, sheltered by the soft cotton of her underwear, and raising her other fingers like a concert pianist, began to make soft circles, pressing a little harder each time. Soon the cotton between her legs was hot and wet.
She looked down at herself, her body lit blue by the gas pilots warming the kitchen. Dark hair curled from her knickers, as she didn’t bother to trim her bush. Nobody saw her there and, anyway, she liked it – she didn’t want to look like a girl, she liked being a woman, powerful and strong. The cotton of her underwear appeared turquoise in the gas light, but her nipples, tight and stinging, were plum coloured. She lifted a hand up to touch her right nipple, feeling it crinkle; the taut, shuddering pleasure it gave her radiating through her body. She let her fingers trail back to her left breast and pinched that nipple hard, making herself gasp out loud with pain, mixed with pleasure.
She let her head fall back, her left hand travelling down her body to meet her right and then passing it, diving down inside her knickers to slide two fingers into her body, opening and closing them like scissors, while her right hand made ever-faster circles on her clit.
She came silently, years of practice guaranteeing her an intense, perfectly timed orgasm. For a moment after she lay there, letting the tremors in her legs settle, feeling her heart return to its normal rhythm. Then she stood up, slid her feet into the clogs and walked to the huge kitchen sink. Here she washed herself with more unscented soap, cleaning her whole body again, before drying herself on a thin towel. She scrubbed her hands with a brush and dried them.
Special Delivery
Just as Ella had finished dressing, the alarm on her oven rang and she began lifting trays of dough to the table, sprinkling them with flour and giving them their second kneading – called ‘knocking back’ – before shaping them for the oven and setting them to prove again. Then she took the filo pastry she’d left under a damp cloth, checked her order-board and made four dozen dilara baklava which she would cook while the bread rose.
She used the rest of the time before baking to clean the kitchen. There wasn’t much time after the bread came out of the oven before the vans arrived to collect it. Ella’s baked goods weren’t sold to the public; instead, she supplied breakfast bread to the best hotels in London, and their drivers would be impatient to whisk it away and get it to the kitchens in time for room-service breakfasts. And when the last of the bread had been lifted into the final van, Ella could relax until the next morning.
The alarm rang again and she put the trays of rolls and breads into the ovens. While they cooked she paced around the kitchen, watching each glass-fronted oven carefully (even a few seconds’ overcooking could scorch the delicate breads).
The vans began to arrive and she handed each driver the correct trays, packed tight with the orders the hotel had phoned for the previous day. But the van that collected for the Rallinson Hotel was late. Ella was standing outside to cool down when it arrived, screeching into her small yard as if the driver had gone insane.
“Sorry, I got lost and I’m running so late!” The voice which came was female, and the driver who appeared was undoubtedly feminine too. Slim, with short, feathery hair, she had gorgeously soft and deep blue eyes. Ella immediately thought of Natalie Portman and then pushed the thought away, reminding herself that she was a baker first and foremost. But she couldn’t stop herself staring. “I’m Chris.”
The woman stuck out her hand and Ella shook it. “The usual driver’s broken his ankle so it’ll be me for a couple of weeks.” Chris was standing close enough for Ella to smell her sandalwood perfume. She could imagine exactly how Chris would look naked, with large pale nipples like pink fondant and trimmed pubes. Chris would be neat, no doubt about it, and her mound would surely be graced by caramel-coloured curls, corralled into a neat strip by regular waxing. Ella’s mouth watered, but before she could say anything Chris had grabbed the tray of baking from her hands with a “thank you” and was gone.
Morning Glories
Ella had spent the rest of the day unable to remove Chris from her thoughts. For once her mind wasn’t on bread. It was on Chris, naked and beautiful… and in her kitchen. The next morning Ella was ready. Instead of lying on her bed masturbating, she cleaned the kitchen and set one dilara baklava on a plate.
“Come in for a second,” she said when Chris drove up, on time on this occasion. “I’ve got something for you to try.”
Chris grinned when she saw the pastry on the kitchen table and Ella watched as she walked, noting the sassy twist of the blonde’s backside as she leaned over the table to eat it. The woman was flaunting herself, no doubt about it. Chris turned round, her lips flecked with golden sugar. She pushed crumbs into her mouth with her finger.
“Nice,” she said. Ella moved forward but Chris held up her hand. “But a bit rich, perhaps. I always like something light in the morning.” With a cheeky smile she was gone again, striding past Ella, her breast brushing the baker’s white tunic as she lifted the delivery tray.
Ella didn’t sleep that night. She twisted the sheet and lay on her side, pulling it to and fro between her legs until it was a hot, wet rope. Then she came, yelling aloud her pleasure, frustration and rawness at the thought of Chris.
On the third day, Chris didn’t get out of the van. “Sorry! Running late again – could you load me up?” Ella was sure the words must have a double meaning but Chris had gunned the engine and roared off before she could think of a reply.
On the fourth morning, Ella got up at 2am. She’d thought of a bread recipe to make for Chris: a dough enriched with lemon zest and almonds and sweetened with a hint of caramel – light but decadent. She shaped the dough into two interlocking triangle shapes, scoring a line through each. Nobody could mistake that symbolism
When the special bread was baked, she sliced each triangle to make a pocket. In one, representing the blonde-haired Chris, she put apricot jam with a hint of brandy; in the other, representing herself, she spread black cherry preserve with kirsch. She set it aside and waited.
Later on, Chris stepped into the kitchen. Ella kept on working and bent over the table, which was white with flour and powdered sugar. “Try that,” she said casually and watched as Chris picked up the bread, her eyebrows rising at she observed its shape and took a delicate bite. “Mmm, delicious.”
“Try the other side.” Ella tried to keep looking busy but was distracted by watching Chris. She felt herself become wet and as Chris lowered her head to nibble the cherry-filled triangle, she could no longer contain herself. Ella pushed the plate out of the way and grabbed Chris by the shoulders, turning her to face her and pushing her against the table. Her hands left white prints on Chris’ bare arms. Ella thrust her thigh hard between Chris’ legs and, as the other woman gasped, she kissed her, tasting jam and sugar. She kept her leg between Chris’ as she bent to lift her onto the table, surprised at how light she was.
Ella’s hand found the waistband of Chris’ trousers and thrust inside it, finding the narrow, wet curls she’d seen so clearly in her mind’s eye. Chris moaned into Ella’s mouth and raised herself so Ella could tug her trousers down. Then she lay back on the table, framed in floury white, and Ella lifted up her knees so that her feet rested on her shoulders.
Ella stared down at the lovely body splayed open below her and reached out for a handful of sugar, which she sprinkled onto Chris’ mound before lowering her mouth, hungry for the taste of this woman. She began to lap her tongue over Chris’ clit. It had a tangy flavour which Ella couldn’t get enough of.
Chris’ arse was in the air and her head was thrashing, flour and sugar flying as she worked towards orgasm. Ella lifted her waist, using her strength to hold the slim woman in the air, pulling more and more of her into her mouth. Chris thrashed, groaned and went limp, her eyes wide and dark as she stared up at Ella, who lowered her gently to the table, keeping Chris’ feet on her shoulders as she leaned on her left hand. She curved her right hand into a scoop and drove it with sudden force between Chris’ legs, opening her wet flesh with three strong fingers. Chris groaned and pushed back, offering herself up to Ella’s hand, reaching her arms out so that she could grip the sides of the table and brace herself to each thrust.
Ella was impressed. Chris looked delicate but she was strong, too, and demanding. Like dough, she needed power to master her. Ella put her back into the job, watching puffs of sugar and flour rise from the table as she slammed into Chris, who slammed back, groaning and twisting, her eyes closed, the veins on her neck corded with effort, coming, shrieking, closing her thighs around Ella’s hand, lifting her upper body and arching her back so that her breasts swung and jiggled like fruit on a tree. Then she lay back slowly, her eyes closing in exhaustion. Ella tugged gently on Chris’ pubes until her eyes opened again. “You’re going to be late,” she said, licking her lips, which tasted deliciously of Chris. “And you’re a right mess.”
Chris nodded, struck mute. “I can give you a cap to hide your hair,” offered Ella. Chris reached up and felt the mess of sugar and flour matted to her head as Ella added, “But you’ll have to bring it back as soon as you finish work.”
Chris nodded again and Ella reached up to a shelf, handing her down a baseball cap. After Chris had pulled her trousers back up, Ella passed her a box containing the rest of the special bread. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” she said. Chris nodded for the third time, but before she left she kissed Ella gently, pressing their bodies together.
After Chris had departed, Ella looked at the table. She should clean it, ready for the next day’s work. Instead she gathered up the sugar and flour and sat, dipping her finger into the pile of white crystals and licking it clean. It tasted of sandalwood, sweat and sex. It would keep her going until Chris returned.
