HOME MAID: A Super Pies Tale
VOLUME ONE—Origins of a Super Slut
10
At last, the final pie was in the oven. She had made five on purpose this time so she might “Have her cake and eat it too.” This way, even if she positively gorged herself on the forbidden stuff before the guests arrived, and, like last time, ate way more pie “in one sitting” than she had meant to, there might still be some left for dinner with the Cobblers that evening. (She had thus purposely stuffed the first pies overfull of fruit, and been considerably scarcer with the innards of the remaining ones, so scarce indeed, she’d run out of wakka-wakka for the last one, and had no choice but to substitute apple.)
Concerning that dinner her husband had reminded her of on the phone—and consequent of which she had foreseen the end of her blessed suburban life—Maddy hadn’t thought much at all yet on fixing a main course, hors d’oeuvre, an aparetif, table arrangement and centerpiece, or any of those innumerable other fripperies she usually went to such great pains to materialize in the event of a dinner party. This was in part the natural result of how long it had taken her to make just the pies—four hours if she were counting, and that not just because of her making so many: for each time she rolled out the dough for one, she had to set aside equal time to fellating the roller, obviously; and for each minute she spent pinching the crust, she had to spend ten pinching her as risibly tweezable nipples; and for each finger lick she stole from the bowl-full of fruit, just think the many snitched of her just as oozy snatch! No, it was fair to say, though it had taken Maddy a good deal longer to make these pies than any others ever baked before by just about anybody, a good deal more of the chef went into this batch than into about any other.
The other reason she hadn’t prepared much for the dinner besides pie was that, any time the consideration to do so did occur to her, that same becalming buzzing would strike up a louder chorus in her brain, and she’d just be so happy to have the pie to make, so happy for pie in general, so grateful for pie . . . What else mattered . . ?
The kitchen and Maddy, too, were much messier on the present Saturday afternoon than they usually got when she cooked. She hadn’t bothered to put an apron on, no doubt as she was so impatiently hungry and the thing would just get in the way of her accompanying self-fondles, a legitimate culinary pastime but newly discovered by the cook. Her body, for both reasons, was practically caked in flour and, more conspicuously, dueling layers of pie juices and her own juices. She was a good deal sweatier, too, than she usually got, for she was sweaty from a good deal more than just the heat of the oven. However, on the present occasion, she didn’t even consider running a bath after putting the last pie in; instead she licked the big ceramic bowl of fruit-innards clean with the help of an overused finger, and took guzzling gulps from a apposite gallon jug of milk.
Milk was by far her favorite beverage now, ever since drinking it at Pud’s the night before. It fortified and, perhaps oddly, calmed her, much like the buzzing in her head. In fact, it magnified the buzzing, or called her attention more to it at least, reminded her that the buzzing was in her, that the buzzing was good, that though the buzzing sometimes died down, it always came back again stronger—she didn’t have to worry . . .
She derived a strange comfort, too, from drinking the milk straight from the jug, precisely as she had the day before, upon news her husband was working late, from cutting sloppily the pie; only now the slight hint of revenge in the act, the hint that abandoning propriety was at most vindicating—this hint was missing. Now it was enough to be sloppy for its own sake—seemed to Maddy—that is, for the sake of the weirdly palpable pleasure it gave her in flouting especially the tediousness of her previous purism.
In addition to abandoning her prior rectitude, Maddy had abandoned as well any of her aforesaid perfectionism in her craft. No exaggeration to say, her pies had all come out whopping sloppy messes this time, fruit innards poking up here and there through barely adhesive top crusts. And the chef scarcely noticed this, let alone cared what such a change in her signaled. She was bored of change itself, or perhaps oblivious to it, only interested now in what fleshly advantages could be wrung out of change.
“It’s all going to the same place,” might have summed up Maddy’s latest profound philosophy on not just food—and so long as that place where wakka-wakka was concerned was her own lustful gob, what’d she care if the pie looked good or not? It hardly mattered if it tasted good, really; she’d ingested—in the course of only the last two days—quite a bit more of what she never would have thought before was “tasty”, and yet—how weirdly good it had all made her feel!
If hunger is indeed a meal’s only necessary condiment, Maddy had good reason to be always licking her lips before such consummately untoothsome fare as she was always nowadays eagerly putting between her lips, for as a woman she was recognizable as nothing so much, one hopes, as the feminine incarnation of bodily appetite.
Again there was a ding of the doorbell, this time just as Maddy was once more climaxing predictably on the taste of pie mixed very liberally with the alternate prodding of her clit by her “tasting” finger.
“UNG!” Maddy gulped, as her eyes searched in vain for the world outside of her eyelids, and her hips and thighs, in their sparkle-green micro-mini, performed their now famous judder-dance. “Kuh-Kuh-Coming!”
Opening the door, the wife-slut Maddy with slight difficulty breathed her customary greeting: “Uh-huh?”
“How she doin’, Miss LaMoan?”
“Huh—?”
“Yo’ daughter, Ma’am?”
“U-u-u-u-u-uh . . .” Maddy’s mouth hung open till she finally got it. “O—No doy! Yeah, that was TOTALLY the thingy I wanted to tell, like, what’s—’is-name . . .”
“Uh. Miss LaMoan?” the copper was considerably more shocked by Maddy’s appearance today than even she had been by her odd appearance the day before, when Maddy had opened the door naked but for a revealing fur coat. For Maddy, as said, was a mess! Her hair was askew and in places even “spiky”, her skin was covered all over in flour and purple pie, her face was flushed and impossibly sweaty, and of course she was dressed now like the least equivocating of fairytale whores.
Maddy smiled back at the big-bootied black sexy cop, but rest assured, nothing if not very happily. She was just expelling some residual love-resin at the abrupt greeting of outside’s chill breeze on her sapid and still uncovered vagina.
“You mind, Miss LaMoan . . . Uh, if I’s comes in?” Officer Turnover made a stab for the professional authority desperately lacking the weird scene unfolding. “Yo’ daughter’s home, ain’t she?”
Maddy had to think about that one. Was she? She couldn’t remember. Hadn’t she got kidnapped, or something?
“Um,” and so Maddy took up the copper’s same inarticulate manner of address, but then added, as she did of late, speaking lines as if from a porno movie with as if no conscious intention of doing so, “O please do, Ossifer—come in my inside!”
Mrs. LaMode opened the door wide, then, and stood in the doorway with her back to the hinge, so when Officer Turnover obliged and entered, the large-rumped black cop was inclined to brush the presenting large-racked horny Maddy with her arm, very brusquely, actually, particularly at the nipples, and so Maddy was inclined to go cross-eyed, swoon and just about fall to the cement frontstep, if the kind cop hadn’t caught her the instant before Mrs. LaMode’s knees buckled.
“You don’t look so good, Miss LaMoan. You a’ight ’n’ shit?”
“I’m great,” Maddy lovingly assured her “protectress”, making little kittenish pawing gestures meanwhile at her “protectress”; for “protectress” was how she now identified, not in fact the lady-cop, but that big black beautiful booty to all evidence supporting her—nay, Maddy marveled, supporting the entire world! Maddy goggled at the cop’s butt from over the cop’s own shoulder for a good forty seconds, in that suspended glowing sentimental moment that followed necessarily on the wife’s previous soul-suffusing lusty one, in a transformation of one essential state to another as accordant to chemical law, apparently, as any forced marriage of silver nitrate and salt.
“Um,” replied the purveryor of her “protectress”, “Heh, heh.” It was hard for this sensual working class “colored” police officer not to feel flattered and a little “freaked” by the flagrantly frisky attentions of the busty “rich bitch” she was presently holding up.
When Maddy was sat down on the couch in the living room and gotten a glass of water by the helpful Officer Turnover, and Maddy had refused the water and requested “Milk and pie, please” instead—to which the copper said “Um” again, and to good purpose, and scratched her head, then added that same “Heh-heh” again—and when the copper had begun sufficiently to pace the floor in front of where Maddy sat, in a very valiant effort to look a little cop-like notwithstanding the current very weird situation, and so Maddy was in good sitting to note the agreeable strain of the form-fit knee-length black skirt of her “protectress” in uniform; and when all this had duly gone on for a while now, the black cop asking the white wife the few questions she could think of regarding the health and what have you of the girl she’d brought home the day before in a state only slightly less sightly than that she found the mother in today; if, for instance, the mom hadn’t noticed anything different about her behavior, or the daughter hadn’t remembered anything “revelant” of the events of the previous day, or at least if the girl “wasn’t woke up yet” . . ?—and when Maddy had in turn had time to stare cluelessly at the interrogating Officer Turnover for several good half-minutes at a time, to answer in affirming or denying grunts or giggles as the case seemed, if never to demand, at least never able entirely to preclude her doing, hoping the while the pies were almost done—but then she’d remember it’d be another fifteen . . . ten . . ?—and wondering again as she did almost every other minute what her “Puddy-Daddy” was doing that very one—When they’d gone through “all such inessential motions”, essentially, and it was at last time for Officer Turnover, having gotten nothing at all of use from the mother in the intervening etc, simply to request an audience with the daughter herself, the policewoman did that, and the mom, scarcely knowing herself what she was granting by it, accordingly grunted.
“She woke up, den, Miss LaMoan?” the copper then asked for what amounted to the second time, because she still wasn’t sure of the answer.
Again Maddy grunted what might have been taken equally as meaning “yes” or “no”, depending on one’s inclination; however, as the cop showed zero inclination to take it any way, and only looked straight in the face of the all but presenting floozy without saying anything, until Maddy eventually understood she was supposed to give even more of an answer, at last the curiously spread-eagel housewife volunteered a shrug.
“Where’s ’er room, Madam?” And though the good-natured Officer Turnover chuckled a little in asking, it was clear that even as mild-mannered and amenable a police officer as she was had about grown exasperated with this exceptionally aloof housewife, and was beginning to suspect something fishy was, perhaps, afoot regarding the whole crazy-ass cracker family.
Maddy shrugged again, but realized there was an answer to that question she was arguably qualified to give, and so pointed dutifully toward the spiral stairs beyond the adjoining dining room. Officer Turnover nodded soberly, turned, and commenced to shake her firm butt upstairs.
Once that ass had departed, and its magnetic hold on Maddy’s attention was thereby broken, Mrs. LaMode fingered herself to cumming a few times till the ass returned, aided in her efforts by the unsolicited mental picture of the same ass riding “bareback” Maddy’s wonderstruck face.
“Huh?” Maddy, her runty tongue out and wiggling, looked up glassy-eyed at her just returned “protectress”, whose possessor was again shaking the infinitely shakeable “it” with each heavy step by which she trucked the universal buttress downstairs again.
“No good, Marm,” the officer reported from the staircase, looking down at her feet the while and so kindly ignoring how frankly exposed and wet the mother had so unabashedly got herself just since she’d left her a few short minutes before. But as implied, Officer Turnover possessed, in addition incidentally to a really rather marvelous big black butt, that most essentially accommodating sort of sensual nature, that no sooner sees an excess of desire in another but instantly admires it—though all the while, if she were in company with other cops or family or church-going neighbors, she would feel obliged to censure it; but even in such cases the censure would ever be only of the most out-of-hand, unhearfelt stamp. For, at heart, and though it scared the goodish woman somewhat to admit, as it aroused her frightfully and seemed at odds somehow with her sworn occupation to do her duty, Officer Turnover could imagine no better world than one in which humans were constantly whacking off or fucking themselves or each other, and wholly without regard of age, sex, race, or physical appearance. And though it did shock her to see Maddy so busily “at it” and in her, a cop’s, company, and it did cause her to remark again mentally her own useful perennial mantra of “Rich folks is crazy,” yet unconsciously Officer Turnover only respected “Miss LaMoan” the more for all that rich bitch’s unwitting audacity, as such audacity obviously implied to her that she, Officer Cherie Turnover, might be, if not AS audacious, well, audacious enough, and in her own good time. “Kid’s out still. Looks a’ight, dough, for the recor’, sleepin’ like a babe. Jes’ tire’s all. Seen it a hundred times. Dey usual sleep a day or so aftah a big blast like she had.”
Perhaps for the cop’s lending her a part of her anatomy for her erotic imagining and latest get-off, Maddy felt a great deal of inexpressible gratitude to the officious woman upon the latter’s reappearance in the LaMade family’s rumpus room. She wished unequivocally, instinctively, and above all things to paw then piously at that woman’s big black booty. At the same time she was consumed by a maternal fondness for her “protectress’s” possessor. She wanted to do something nice for the two of them, the “protectress” and its possessor. If only she could do “some thingy” to make them both feel as good as she was ever feeling nowadays, and together . . .
“BUZZZZZ!” went the oven timer.
“Won’t you stay for pie!” Maddy popped up off the couch with a superhuman sproing.
“Uh—heheh!—I’s better be goin’, axshully . . .”