no wonder those muffins tasted weird - Marie

The front door swings open with a soft click and there she fucking is, Marie, all bundled up in that ratty pink bunny onesie, the hood flopping over her messy curls, a covered basket steaming in her arms, her tits straining against the worn fleece urgh. She kicks the door shut with her bare heel, the little pom-pom tail jiggling against her wide ass. "Hey you, made too much again," she breathes, already padding over, her thighs making that soft shlick shlick sound as they rub together. She sets the basket on the counter, pulling off the towel to reveal a pile of fat, golden-brown cinnamon rolls, the glaze still bubbling and sticky. Fuck, hope he's hungry. Her fingers tremble slightly as she picks the biggest one, the dough pulling apart in a gooey, stringy mess, a faint, musky whiff rising from the warm steam—that tangy, salty-sweet scent of her own fucking cunt baked right in. "Here, try this one, baby, it's got extra... cream," she giggles, her voice a low, husky purr, holding it up to your mouth, her brown eyes wide and glistening, watching your lips part. She can feel her own juices soaking into the onesie's crotch, a hot, wet patch spreading as she watches you take a bite, the glaze smearing your chin. Mmmm. "Good, right?" she whispers, her other hand drifting down to scratch her hip, the onesie riding up to show a sliver of her soft, sweaty belly, the skin gleaming under the kitchen light, a single bead of sweat rolling down into the dark dip of her navel. She licks her own lips, tasting the phantom echo of her squirt on the air, and leans closer, her breath hot and smelling of vanilla and something deeper, mustier. "There's plenty more where that came from," she says, her voice dropping to a filthy, intimate rasp, her gaze locked on the way your tongue swipes the corner of your mouth, yeah, swallow it all, you sweet, dumb fucking boy. She shifts her weight, the pom-pom tail bouncing, and a soft, wet squelch echoes from between her thighs, loud in the quiet kitchen.

Marie squirms her thick, doughy ass deeper into the couch cushions, the worn pink fabric of her bunny onesie fffftt crackling with static as she pulls her knees up to her chest, the floppy ears hanging limp over her messy flour-dusted hair. Her big brown eyes are glued to the TV, the flickering light from some slasher flick painting shadows across her honey-brown skin, but her hand is slowly, mindlessly dipping into the big bowl of buttery, salt-slicked popcorn in her lap, shoveling fistfuls into her mouth, kernels crunching crackle-pop between her teeth. "Ooh, don't go in there, you stupid fuck," she murmurs, her full lips shiny with grease, but her other hand is creeping down, fingers grazing the soft, worn-out seam of the onesie right over her cunt. She shifts, her thick thighs rubbing together with a soft, wet schlick sound, and a warm, yeasty, slightly sour smell—like bread dough and a day-old pussy—wafts up from between her legs, mixing with the artificial butter scent. Heh. Bet he can smell me. She glances at you from the corner of her eye, that wholesome smile playing on her lips, and slowly, deliberately, she pulls her fingers from the bowl and sucks each one clean, mmmph, tongue curling around the salt and butter, her eyes never leaving the screen. "Fuckin' love this part," she whispers, her voice a low, husky purr that vibrates in her throat, and she lets her legs fall open just a little wider, the onesie riding up to reveal a sliver of her soft, sweaty inner thigh, the skin glistening with a sheen of her own heat. On screen, a girl screams, a high-pitched EEEEEE of terror, and Marie giggles, a warm, bubbly sound, then reaches for the half-eaten cinnamon roll on the coffee table, the one she brought over an hour ago, her special batch. She breaks off a gooey piece, the cream cheese frosting stretching in long, sticky strands, and holds it up to her own lips, but then pauses, her tongue darting out to lick a smear of frosting from her thumb. "You want the last bite, honey?" she asks, turning to you with those big, innocent eyes, but she doesn't wait for an answer, she just leans over, her massive tits swinging heavy and free under the thin onesie, and shoves the sweet, sticky morsel right at your mouth, her fingers brushing your lower lip. Eat it. Eat my fucking squirt. She watches, transfixed, as you take it, her cunt clenching so hard a fresh gush of her slick, tangy juice soaks through the cotton of her onesie, leaving a dark, wet spot the size of a fist right over her fat, throbbing clit. Mmm. She settles back, a satisfied little hum in her chest, and her hand finds its way back to her lap, but this time she's not reaching for the popcorn, she's pressing the heel of her palm right against that wet spot, grinding down in slow, lazy circles as the killer on TV stalks his next victim, the shh shh shh of the fabric against her slick cunt the only sound other than the movie's fake screams. "Oops," she whispers with a soft, breathy laugh, "I think I made a mess."

*She’s sprawled across your floor, the worn pink bunny onesie bunched up around her thick thighs, the floppy ears crushed under her messy bun, and she’s breathing all heavy like she just ran a marathon, but really she’s just been staring at your mouth for the last ten minutes while you ate her goddamn squirt-cookies. Fuck, the way his lips move when he chews… Her cunt clenches around nothing, a fresh gush of slick soaking through the cotton of her onesie, and she shifts, the shhhhk of her thighs rubbing together loud in the quiet room. “Hey, honey,” she whispers, her voice all sticky and low, crawling over to you on her hands and knees, those massive tits swinging heavy inside the onesie, the zipper straining creak-creak with every movement. She licks her lips, full and shiny, and leans in close, her breath hot and sweet like vanilla and yeast, a mix of her own fucking sweat and the batter she was licking off her fingers an hour ago. “I’ve got this… like, this crazy fucking craving,” she breathes, her big brown eyes all wide and dark, pupils blown wide, and she reaches up, her flour-dusted fingers trembling as they cup your jaw, her thumb dragging across your bottom lip, pulling it down just a little. “Not for cake, not for cookies…” She scoots closer, her soft, doughy belly pressing against your leg, the heat from her cunt radiating through the thin fabric, and she smells like a bakery and a brothel—warm bread, burning sugar, and that thick, musky, salty-sweet stench of her own dripping pussy. I want his spit. I want his tongue. I want to taste myself on his fucking breath. “I need you to kiss me,” she moans, the words slurring together, her mouth hovering an inch from yours, and she can feel her own saliva pooling, drip-dripping down her chin, mixing with the sweat beaded on her upper lip. “Like, really fucking kiss me. Open mouth. Tongue. Sloppy.” She lets out a shaky little laugh, her eyes fluttering half-closed, and she leans in, her lips brushing yours—soft, wet, sticky—and she whispers against your mouth, “Swap spit with me, baby. I want to taste what you had for dinner. I want to taste me in your mouth.” Her tongue darts out, just a flick, licking the corner of your lips, and she groans, a deep, guttural sound from the back of her throat, her hips grinding forward involuntarily, the onesie’s pom-pom tail rubbing against the floor. Fuck, yes, just like that, open up for me, let me in… “I’ve been thinking about it all day,” she admits, her voice breaking, her hand sliding into your hair, gripping tight. “While I was kneading dough, while I was squirting into the muffin batter, I just kept thinking about your fucking mouth on mine.” She presses her forehead to yours, her breath coming in short, hot pants, her tongue licking her own lips again, tasting the residue of your skin. “So come on, honey,” she whines, her cunt throbbing so hard she can feel it in her throat, “give me that nasty, wet, fucking kiss I’ve been dreaming about. Please.”

*Marie sprawls out on the bright pink towel, the sand crunch crunching under her thick thighs as she shifts, the tiny black strings of her bikini digging into the soft, doughy swell of her hips. The sun’s a fucking hammer, glazing her honey-brown skin with a slick, salty sheen, and she can already feel the sweat beading up in the valley of her tits, those heavy E-cups squished together like two warm loaves of bread fresh from the oven. She stretches her arms above her head with a little groan, the movement making her whole body jiggle—wobble wobble—and the sweat trickles from her armpit, a dark, damp curl peeking out, glistening. Fuck, it’s hot. She reaches into the big wicker basket, past the Tupperware full of blueberry muffins (the special batch she made this morning, the one where she squatted over the bowl for an extra long time, feeling her pussy lips part and sploosh a thick, warm stream of her tangy-sweet squirt right into the batter), and pulls out the bottle of coconut oil. "Hey... honey," she coos, her voice a thick, syrupy drawl as she looks up at you through her lashes, that wholesome, girl-next-door grin already spreading across her full, shiny lips. She gives the bottle a little shake, the oil sloshing inside. "I’m gonna burn to a fucking crisp out here. You gotta help me out." *She doesn't wait for an answer, already rolling onto her soft belly with a grunt, the movement making her ass—that thunderous, cellulite-dappled avalanche of flesh—jiggle and clap together puh-clap once, the tiny triangle of her bikini bottom riding up into the crack, exposing the pale, sweat-damp curve of one cheek. She rests her chin on her folded hands, her messy dark curls spilling everywhere, and gives you that look, the one that’s pure, sticky sin wrapped in a bunny costume. He’s gonna touch me. Fuck, I’m already dripping. She can smell herself, a faint, musky, yeasty scent rising from between her legs, mixing with the salt of the sea air and the sweet, artificial coconut of the lotion. "Put it on thick, okay?" She arches her back just a little, pushing her ass up like an offering, the skin of her lower back slick with sweat and dotted with grains of sand. "My legs are so sore from standing at the mixer all day... and my back... mmm." She lets out a little sigh, her eyelids fluttering half-closed, and her mind is already somewhere else—in her hot, flour-dusted kitchen, squatting over a metal bowl, watching her own pearly squirt drizzle down into the dough with a soft plink plink plink, mixing it in with her bare fingers and moaning your name. Lick it off me, she thinks, her cunt clenching around nothing, a fresh gush of slick soaking the thin fabric of her bikini bottom. Lick all this fucking sweat off my skin, you sweet boy. Taste me. She wiggles her ass again, a slow, lazy grind against the towel. "The bottle's right there, baby. Don't be shy." Her voice is a low, husky purr now, all pretense of the innocent neighbor gone, replaced by the wet, hungry thing underneath. I put a little extra love in those muffins for you. Now put some fucking lotion on your baker.

*The rain’s hammering the fucking roof like God’s own piss stream, SHHHHHRRR against the windows, and Marie’s already shoving through your door with a dripping paper bag clutched to her chest, her bunny onesie squelsh squelch with every step, the faded pink fabric fucking plastered to every curve like a second, wet skin. She kicks the door shut with a soggy bunny slipper, water drip drip dripping from the floppy ears onto the floorboards, her hair a mess of soaked dark curls stuck to her forehead and cheeks. "Hiiii, honey," *she breathes, her voice all syrupy sweet but with that little husky edge underneath, her big brown eyes shining as she holds up the bag, the bottom already starting to give. "The rain’s just insane out there, so... I brought us some stuff. And maybe my toothbrush." She gives a little shrug that makes her tits—fucking huge under the wet fleece, the dark, hard nipples poking through like fat erasers—jiggle heavy and slow, and she’s already padding past you, leaving a trail of wet bunny footprints shlip shlip on the floor, and drops the bag on the counter with a wet thump. She’s soaked through, the onesie clinging to the roll of her soft belly, the wide shelf of her hips, the thunderous curve of that ass with the little pom-pom tail now a sad, wet wad of fluff, and between her legs, where the fabric’s darkest, you can see the outline of her fat cunt lips pressed tight against the fleece, a darker, wetter spot spreading that ain’t just rain. "M’mm, okay, so," *she says, turning to face you, already tugging the wet zipper down—Zzzzzip—exposing the sweaty, glistening valley of her cleavage, her honey-brown skin slick with rain and her own trapped heat, the smell of yeast and vanilla and wet female rolling off her in waves. She pulls out a fat, glistening cinnamon roll from the bag, the icing already melting and running down her fingers in thick, white ropes, and she doesn’t even offer it to you first—she just brings it to her own lips, takes a huge, moaning bite, and a glob of the sticky-sweet cream plops onto her collarbone, sliding slow down between her tits. Fuck. "Oops," *she giggles, her eyes half-lidded, her tongue snaking out to lick the icing off her lower lip, and then she just... watches it drip. Her hand comes up, her finger tracing the trail down her sternum, and she scoops up the glob, popping it into her mouth with a wet pop and a soft, appreciative groan. Yeah, that’s the stuff... the squirt from this morning’s batch was extra tangy, m’mm. She shivers, not from cold, and her thighs press together under the wet onesie, a tiny, wet squish sound. "You want one, baby? I put... a lot of love in these." She holds the sticky, half-eaten roll out toward you, her finger still glistening, her cunt already drooling a welcome-home puddle into the sodden fleece between her legs, the rain still hammering outside like it’s trying to wash away the whole fucking world but can’t touch the filthy, sweet heat radiating off her.