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Bread, with Cinnamon

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I stared out of my corner office, and took in the view. The view was some guy in the corner office of the next building, staring right back at me.


How had it come to this? When did my life go wrong? I was very successful at my work. I was also very unhappy. The money was great, the hours were not. The business was interesting, the people were abominable. The prestige was a source of pride.

But the responsibilities and uncertainty had become a force of geologic proportion that was slowly crushing me into powder. Every day I woke up, geared myself for combat, and entered the fray, fighting for the market, for the innovations, for the edge that would lead me to the next level, where I would find more of the same, only worse. Constantly keeping one eye on my back, lest my “allies” decide that personal gain was more important than cheerful cooperation. Like an old bear, constantly being alert, either for prey or to avoid being prey. Once upon a time, it had been exciting, even exhilarating. Now, it was clear my heart wasn’t in it anymore.

In fact, I had to admit my heart was breaking.

I had learned to despise it all. The ironclad city, the electric light that replaced the sun, the air conditioning that replaced the sky, the Dictaphone, telephone, computer and office dividers that reduced human contact to only what was absolutely necessary. I remembered what it had been like in high school, in college, with troupes of friends, piles of parties, and the carefree times that filled in the spaces between astonishing revelations of a complex and fascinating world. Every day, something new and inspiring. Now, just the tedium of a never ending battle that made me feel apathetic. Or broken. Or just plain old.

I tried to force myself to think about the tender offer. The new hires report, the meeting tomorrow with the CFO, the big pile of work on my desk, yada, yada, yada. One damn problem after another, all sorts of stuff to think about, all these damn responsibilities, and the constant paranoia. Who within the company was plotting for my job? Who outside of the company was plotting to cheat me, or steal an idea? I tried to concentrate, but it was useless.

The only thing on my mind was the ache in my neck, the fatigue in my muscles, the longing in my heart.

Oh, and the tingle in my prick.

That was something new. I’d read about job burnout before, but if this was a symptom, it wasn’t listed. It was weird, but true. As the day came to an end, as the stress, frustration, isolation and wariness reached the saturation point, I started getting horny. Irritated, I tried to remember how long this had been going on. A month? A year? Seemed like a long time. Was it a conditioned reaction to the stress? My body’s attempt to find some kind, any kind of relief? I really couldn’t put my finger on when it had begun, or what was triggering it. All I knew was that as soon as every workday ended, I was exhausted, depressed and my dick needed attention. What a combination.

It was only three o’clock, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I put on my suit coat, grabbed my briefcase and left my office, shuffling along, feeling like I was about ninety. In the parking garage, I got into my bright red MG and took off, thinking to myself that under other circumstances, I’d at least be coming home to my wife. She was a doll, and today she would have gotten a surprise. One needy, grumpy, horny hubby, desperate and begging for some TLC and relief, for some validation, for some hope. Normally, I try not to shove my problems on her. And today, even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t. My wife would be teaching her afternoon classes at the vo-tech school–followed by her evening classes at the vo-tech school. Home economics and culinary arts.

Bummer. I tried not to think about it.

But the drive home was no help. Modern technology was everywhere to greet me with its benefits. Gridlock from the moment I tried to enter the freeway. After twenty minutes of waiting on the ramp, I got on and right in front of me was a dump truck, complete with thick diesel fumes that made my eyes sting. Traffic was at a crawl, people were weaving in and out, the noise pounded my ears.

Damn it, the stress seemed to make me both more depressed and hornier at the same time! My dick rubbed against the fabric of my pants. Groaning, I pressed down on it with the palm of my hand, and felt it throb with need. This was bad. And there was nothing waiting for me at home but a cold dinner and an empty bed. I’d probably have to jack off the minute I entered the door, for all the good that would do. I needed more than just my hand. I needed…oh hell. I didn’t know what I needed. Something that wasn’t what my life had become. Something that left me satisfied. Alive and vital, and enjoying the world again, every moment of it. My piss-assy mood got worse as I exited and headed down the country road.

It was spring. Spring in the country. The warm wind, scented with flowers and weeds, the green and gold of the fields, what a change from the city! And it was a beautiful day, a sunny day, a hot day. Blue skies studded with fluffy clouds. “Why am I living like this?” I thought. “In a stone and steel rat-trap?” I daydreamed of spending my days here, working in my home office or in the gardens, and at noon, instead of lunch, taking my wife’s hand, going out to the fields with a blanket, and fucking her silly under that hot sky. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. Not today at least.

My mood began to get ugly as I turned up the gravel driveway to the hobby farm we’d recently bought. I parked my MG in the courtyard, looked over the house. This was the best idea we’d ever had. Wait a minute, that my wife had ever had. She really is the smart one. Now, if only I could only spend more time here. Such a nice old farmhouse, dating back to the Civil War. Vines on the walls. Bushes and trees all around. A stone well. A barn, much newer, in the back for my wife’s ponies. An old smokehouse, and the stone kitchen attached to the house, with smoke coming out of that big wood-burning oven my wife used to–

Smoke? Somebody was here?

Oh. It had to be Ursula, that culinary student at my wife’s school, that German girl, from somewhere in the east part of Germany? My wife’s aide. She wanted to teach culinary arts too, old fashioned cooking, so she had arranged to practice in our old kitchen, with those colonial era toys my wife kept collecting, like the antique butter churn. She’s here? In the afternoon? How long had this been going on? I opened the door, got out of the car.

Oh, for Christ’s sake!

As I stood up, the ache in my balls became unbearable. My dick throbbed, stiff as stone and totally constricted in my tight slacks. I reached down to adjust it, to swing it up so I could at least walk, and the sensation as my fingers touched it was…astonishing. Geez, that thing was sensitive today. And so hot, practically burned my fingertips. I struggled, one hand in my pants, maneuvering it into position till it was halfway comfortable. Glad no one was watching, it must have been a funny sight. Felt good though. Reluctantly, I pulled my hand out of my pants, and headed for the front door…and paused. What was Ursula doing here? In the afternoon, while my wife was with the class? Certainly not churning butter, not with the smoke coming out of the chimney. Something my wife asked her to do? I decided I should inquire, and also let her know I was here.

Tired, irritable, horny and discouraged, I moped and shuffled behind the stone building and stepped into the old kitchen. At least it was cooler in here. The sun, low in the late afternoon, came in through the windows, but it still took my eyes time to adjust to the darkness. I noticed a smell. A fragrant smell. A wonderful smell. Bread, baking over the wood fire in the old stone oven. And there was cinnamon in it. It was nice in that old fashioned way one called something nice. I closed my eyes, breathed deep, and savored the smell. Fresh, warm bread.

I opened my eyes. Several loaves of bread were cooling in the window. And there was Ursula, standing by the big stone table that dominated the middle of the kitchen. She was a frequent visitor here, my wife’s star pupil. She was what–22? 25? I’d forgotten. She and my wife had been spending a lot of time in this kitchen, playing with the antique cooking equipment to create, or recreate, all sorts of recipes and dishes using simple, unprocessed materials straight out of the organic co-op or our own garden. Between the sixty hour weeks and the long commute from the huge, dirty city, I’d had little chance to see what they’d been doing. Today, here she was, alone, kneading a big pile of dough on the table, the next batch of bread, humming a little tune as she did so.

“Mister Narducy!” She’d noticed me. “You’re home early.” She had a slight accent, nothing much. They have good English classes in Germany. “Your wife, she told me, you’d probably not be home until…later? Later. Always later.”

Ursula. Ursula…oh, whatever her last name was. She was stout, on the short side, about five feet, six inches tall. Dark hair, almost black, pulled back into a bun. A white peasant blouse, her sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up as she kneaded the bread with strong, powerful hands covered up to the elbows in flour. A white apron, tied over a brown peasant skirt that reached all the way down to her ankles, and I noticed it was actually very flattering to her ass. Her plump ass. Her womanly ass. Swaying back and forth as she worked the bread. Her ass looked soft.

She turned around, patting the flour on her hands. “Your wife, she talked to me about making bread for the class. With the stone firing, we get different flavors, try different kinds. You like to try the cinnamon bread? I am making the raisin bread too, but the cinnamon might be very special, if I didn’t use too much.” I remembered, from the few times I’d met her, that she was always like this. Bubbly, enthusiastic. She really enjoyed working with my wife, working in that kitchen.

“What a wonderful way to live,” I thought.

Unlike me, Ursula spent her days working with her hands, doing something she loved, with fresh air and real sunshine surrounding her. No wonder she looked so healthy and cheerful. I took her in from the front. Dark eyes, almost black, with thick, wire rim glasses. A plain face that was naturally attractive without any makeup. Rosy cheeks, full lips, and a smile made even sweeter with the chipmunk cheeks it created. Her workmanlike blouse, with a dusting of flour, was buttoned up to the neck, and stretched tight by her large, doughy peasant girl boobs, gently bouncing even as she stood still. She looked every bit like the rustic, sensible European farm girl that she probably was. There was a calmness, a serenity to her that I deeply envied. This kitchen was home for her, while my workplace was a battlefield. I started staring at her.

“What is it? Mr. Narducy? All is, everything is all right?”

Those big boobs. Wide hips. Pale, soft skin. The scent of bread and cinnamon coming off her. So warm, so cozy. I looked at her pretty mouth, her wet lips and small, white teeth, and suddenly found myself wondering if she could help me with my little problem.

“Mr. Narducy?”

She was puzzled by the way I was staring at her. Becoming uncomfortable.

“Mr. Narducy? You feel ill? You don’t want to try the cinnamon bread? It’s good.”

I continued to stare at her. Puzzled, and annoyed, she turned back to the table and began kneading the dough again. Kneading the dough with her strong fingers, her hands working deep into the soft, damp bread, then pushing it up, down, and up again. That gave me ideas. I stared at Ursula’s delicious young body, covered in soft cotton, moving gently as she kneaded the bread. The image of it was so unlike what I put up with every day, so…so female! Relaxed and happy at her chore, Ursula was definitely a whole lotta woman. A buxom woman. A ripe, totally fuckable woman, standing right in front of me. And I had an emergency. Watching Ursula work on the dough, cozy in her domestic bliss, I realized that there was something I had to do. She was relaxed, concentrating on her work. “Well then, don’t answer me,” she said. “If you are feeling ill, there’s some tea up in the cupboard, I can make…oh!”

I had come up behind her, placed one hand on her shoulder. I pressed my dick up into her warm ass, and wrapped one arm around her waist.

“What…? What do you want?”

She brought her hands down to the arm I had around her waist, grabbed hold of my hand and began trying to move it. I seized both of her wrists and with great strength, began twisting them around her back.

“What are you doing!?”

She was surprised, and before she could recover her wits, I pushed against her, using my weight to keep her pinned against the table. I brought her arms behind her back. Holding both her wrists with one hand, I nimbly untied the string holding her apron, and deftly, quickly, used it to bind her wrists together, tying her hands so that the apron became a sort of strait jacket. The more she pulled her wrists, the tighter the apron became around her waist. I pulled hard, real hard, making sure the knots were good and tight.

“Mr. Narducy! Mr. Narducy? The meaning of this, what are you–!” She made an oomph noise, as I knocked the wind out of her.

With her hands bound, I placed my arms around her waist, and lifted her off the floor. Neither roughly nor gently, I laid her on her belly on top of the stone table, her huge boobs flattening into the dough as a big cloud of flour poofed up into the air. Her hips hung over the edge of the table.

“Why are you doing this? Was ist los? Mr. Narducy, what are you doing? Stop this, I’m…my hands, I cannot…”

She was clearly confused by the suddenness of my attack. I pressed my left palm into her back, pinning her to the table. Her legs kicked, but I easily stepped between them and spread them slightly with my own. I reached down with my right hand, found the hem of her peasant skirt, and began lifting it up.

“Oh. No!” She was thunderstruck. “Was? Was ist…Mr. Narducy, stop that, please, stop what you are doing!” This time she screamed. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Totally engrossed in my actions, I didn’t answer. She’d figure it out soon enough. I pulled her skirt up above her waist and tucked it into the apron string. She was wearing simple white panties that really didn’t cover her big behind. I savored the sight for a moment, and as my lust soared, grabbed the top of her panties and began pulling them down. She gasped in horror, and began to struggle. Squirmed, jerked and kicked, but with her hands tied behind her and my weight on her back, it did little good. I kept tugging at her panties, working them down her legs, the garment stretching until one side ripped and what was left hung uselessly from her right leg.

For a moment, Ursula lay still, trying to grasp what had just happened, and I feasted my eyes on her bare ass. Ran my palm over it, felt the smoothness, the heat. A real woman’s ass. I tickled it with my fingers, and when she protested, I gave her ass a good swat with my hands, which lead to a sharp scream. Her ass jiggled perfectly. Between her short, stocky legs, the fat lips of her pretty, hairy pussy pooched out, thick and inviting. I was desperate, and couldn’t wait to get my prick in there. I reached down, frantically undid my belt buckle and unzipped my pants, my hand moving fast as I pulled them down to my ankles. Ursula heard the zipper, and it finally hit her what it was I intended to do, and that it was already too late to stop me. I could hear the disbelief in her voice as she began yelling.

“Nein! Nein! Nicht das! Stoppen Sie, bitte! Tun Sie mir dies nicht an! Bitte, bitte, tun Sie mir dies nicht an!”

I don’t speak German, so I didn’t have a clue what she was saying. Didn’t care either. It sounded pretty. I took hold of my penis, loaded and ready, and hurriedly jabbed it between the lips of her pussy.

She panicked when she felt that. She flopped, twisted, struggled, but my full weight held her down. Her voice became shrill as she pleaded.

“Nein, bitte, nein!”

Enough of that got through my enflamed senses to inspire some sick humor. “I’m only about six and a quarter”, I thought, “so if she wants nine, she’ll just have to wait for the next guy.” Lame, but it got a chuckle out of me as I began thrusting into her.

“Nein!” Her shriek was earsplitting. Then she burst out sobbing.

She was a little dry. It must have hurt, because she squealed, still shouting in German. She wriggled, but not as hard, probably so she could concentrate on dealing with the sensations I was forcing her to feel. Relentlessly, I thrust my eager penis into her. I didn’t stop until I was all the way in, until I had rammed it right up to the root, my pubic bone pressing hard into the crack of her big ass. Her peasant pussy gripped my penis…warm…so tight…and hey, starting to get wet. Good, that made it easier to fuck her. And I did start to fuck her. Pulled my penis halfway out, feeling the delightful friction, then thrust it back in. Out. Then in. Again. Harder, faster, urgently. So urgently. I really needed this.

“Oh! Ohh! Oohhh!”

Every thrust I gave now got a yelp out of her. My balls bounced against her pussy lips, the sharp sting surprisingly pleasurable. I reached under her with both hands, squeezed her huge boobs through the blouse, roughly pinching her nipples between my fingers, and she cried out. This gave me the leverage I needed to really begin pounding her, and my iron penis jackhammered her pussy. There was the juicy sound of her ass cheeks slapping together each time I slammed it home. Her cries, her moans, the home cooked smell of the kitchen deep in my nostrils, the cloud of flour filling the air with a fine dust that danced in the sunlight, it was heaven! For the first time in years, my mind went blank, the constant uproar of thoughts, worries, insecurities and responsibilities gone and replaced with…serenity. A sort of peace. I lost myself in the act of taking my pleasure with plump, pretty Ursula.

I began fucking her even harder. She began to slide across the top of the table, the bread dough smearing into her white blouse. My teeth were bared, and I growled as I began thrusting with all the brute force I could muster, slamming the helpless girl into the table, holding her down with my weight while I squeezed her tits, and she moaned and she yelled and she sobbed. This couldn’t last long, and I was in no mood to drag it out.

The sensation in my penis was like a fine crystal being shattered into a million pieces as I exploded into her. My semen came out at firehose pressure as what had been building up all day was finally released. I could feel the muscles in my prostate pumping, pumping, desperately pumping into the defenseless Ursula. It was exquisite. I froze in place, my prick buried deep as the sheer relief of dumping my load into her brought stars to my eyes. A great weight seemed to come off my shoulders. I could see the huge grin on my face reflected in a pan on the wall. I gave a great sigh, followed by a long, deep grunt of satisfaction.

“Mein Gott!”

My semen must have felt white hot splashing into her. She trembled, gasped, moaned and sobbed, but I didn’t pay much attention. I was still lost in my own pleasure, the tension and stress of the entire day draining out of me like water out of a jug. My penis continued to throb inside of her, slowed down, and stopped, bathed in the hot stickiness of semen and her juices. I stood over her, my chest pumping, straining against the buttons of my dress shirt. My tie had come undone. As my senses came back to me, I realized I was also very warm, and I took my suit jacket off. I breathed deep, trying to get the pounding of my heart under control, and more of the warm kitchen smells filled my nostrils, so sweet, so sensuous. Bread, with cinnamon.

I looked down at Ursula, bent over the table, her hands still tied behind her back, and my hands now pressing her down into the dough. Her breathing was deep, and fast, with an occasional sob. Her hair was damp. We were both covered with flour. I could feel her vagina quivering around my penis, and reluctantly I pulled it out of her. It rested against the back of her plump thighs, wet, pink, soft and happy. My balls had that slight ache that comes after being emptied. There was a warm glow all over me, and the muscles at the back of my neck felt relaxed for the first time in days. God, had this been satisfying. Just what the doctor ordered.

Through the leaves from the big elm tree, the warm sun played through the windows into the kitchen, shining over the bright utensils, the dark woodwork, the red brick and gray stone of the big oven. The colors seemed brighter than they had in years. A breeze came through the window, adding the scent of lilac to that of the bread, and I felt Ursula shudder as the cool air brushed over her wet pussy and sensitive ass. I untied her hands, pulled my pants up, buckled my belt, and draped my jacket over my arm. As I crossed over to the door to the house, there was a bouncy spring in my step. A shower, a quick change into my golf clothes, dinner and a quick nine at the course. Man, I felt energetic. Wide awake and raring to go. Maybe the golf wouldn’t be enough, some handball maybe, or a quick swim for a mile or two. Either way, something physical, all this sudden energy needed some sort of outlet.

I did a happy little spin at the door, which ended with me facing Ursula. Still bent over the table, her dress up and her gorgeous ass looking especially plump and pink in the sunlight through the windows. Her wire frame glasses were slightly steamed, and the trails of her tears led down her flour covered cheeks. She was looking at me…more through me…with obvious shock, disbelief, and maybe even a little awe. Glazed eyes, her cheeks flushed, her red lips all puffy. Her hands and arms quivering, she pushed off the table and stood up, staggered off balance for a second and then caught herself. Sniffled, brushed a tear from her eye, and then blushed a deep scarlet as my gaze burned into her. She hurriedly pulled her dress down and smoothed it, her ruined panties still hooked around one ankle. She looked back at me, wary, uncertain of what might happened next, and then blushing even deeper, turned her head and brought one fist up to her mouth, biting on her knuckles, her other hand clenching her apron. Trembling, she glanced at me out of the corner of her eyes, too scared to look directly at me.

With a huge smile, I walked up to her and brushed one finger down her cheek, wiping away a tear. For the first time, I spoke to her.

“The cinnamon bread, Ursula. Right out of the oven. I’ll have it with your homemade butter. I’ll be ready in about ten minutes.”

Ursula nodded.

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