Icing A Cake

Just because you know a bloke, or sometimes work with him, it doesn't make him your mate. I explained this to the guys at the pub but they weren't having a bar of it.

"He came in with you," I was told, "and he's leaving with you. He's now your problem."

Jack is a casual employee that the boss sometimes hires, usually when he's desperate. Jack can do a pretty decent job when he's sober, and there's the problem. When he's sober. He's fine first thing in the morning, but then he'll go and drink lunch. In the afternoon you have to watch him like a hawk, without letting him know you're watching. He gets belligerent if he thinks someone is watching him.

We'd been shorthanded and the boss had arranged for Jack to work on the Thursday and Friday, as he wanted the current job finished before the weekend. Both days had gone pretty much as expected. Jack fine in the morning, half cut in the afternoon. The situation wasn't helped by the fact that there was a pub just a stone's throw away.

Still and all, we finished the job at a reasonable time on Friday afternoon and knocked off slightly early. That's when I realised that having the pub just a stone's throw away isn't such a bad idea. I had ample time for a drink (one only, I was driving, after all) and watch a bit of sport before heading on home.

I wandered over to the pub and it seems that great minds do think alike. The rest of the crew were right on my heels, Jack included.

We all had a drink and then the guys dispersed, except for me and Jack. I was nursing my drink while I watched some sport. Jack was knocking his off so fast you'd think he was scared someone was going to steal the things out of his hand. He was also getting obnoxious.

Now my team was up on the screen and doing well, but was I commenting on this? No, I wasn't. Not when I'm sitting in a pub in the middle of Bulldog territory, Bulldog fans scattered around and snarling at the screen.

Jack, on the other hand, was crowing as though he, personally, was leading the charge to victory, heaping aspersions on the Bulldog players. And on the Bulldog supporters who were getting a little bit toey.

Things came to a head when a couple of Bulldog supporters fronted up to Jack and advised him that it would be fine by them if he left the pub. Now if I'd been in Jack's position I'd have regarded the two slabs of beef glowering at me and discreetly agreed that my absence would be a fine thing.

Jack just glowered back at the mass of muscle and suggested that they try to remove him. To back up his intransigence he tried to push one of the guys back, failed, swore, and took a swing. Then he threw up. That sort of thing happens when you're loaded and someone punches you in the stomach.

Jack followed his vomit to the floor, clutching his stomach. The two slabs of beef then turned to me and pointed out that he was my mate and I should get him out of there before he did himself an injury.

Cue my first paragraph. He's not my mate. A losing argument. The two slabs did kindly offer to carry Jack out to my car, Jack not looking as though he could do it himself. I swore (very quietly – the muscle was very muscular) and acquiesced.

A mumbling Jack was carted out and stuck in my Ute. He looked around, shrugged, and passed out. The one good point was that he'd already thrown up so was unlikely to spew all over my car.

I fished Jack's wallet out of his pocket, looking for his licence. Once I had that I keyed his address into the GPS system and I was right to go. How Jack was getting back here to get his own car I didn't know, nor care.

I finally pulled up outside this nice weatherboard house. I went and knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" a voice called. "I can't get to the door right now."

"Does Jack Nattles live here," I called back.

"Yes, but he's not home right now. Come back later."

"He is now. I've got him in the car. Want me to bring him in or just dump him on the ground."

There was a moment's silence and I had the strongest suspicion that the woman was contemplating having him just dumped on the ground.

"Ah, if you're not going to keep him I suppose you'd better bring him in. Just dump him on the couch in the front room. The door's not locked."

I opened the Ute and hauled Jack out. For a moment I thought I was going to have to do a Fireman's carry, but Jack shook his head and seemed to wake up a bit. It came down to me leading him inside while he leaned heavily against me. I sort of directed him over to the couch in the front room and gave him a push, landing him face down on the couch.

He half pushed himself up, looked around, decided he was home and slumped back onto the couch, already snoring. Geez, what a pain that man was.

Being a gentleman I thought it only right to pay my respects to the owner of the voice. I drifted off in the direct that the voice had come from finding, not really to my surprise, that it was the kitchen.

There was a young lady there, leaning over the kitchen table, doing something esoteric to a whacking great cake on the table. It was interesting to watch her at work, and I stood there for a moment or two, enjoying seeing her in action.

I have to admit, the main source of my enjoyment was the fact that she was wearing a very short skirt, meaning that every time she leant forward the skirt would ride up, exposing a large amount of bottom and a very small amount of panties.

I took a moment or two to assess the young lady. She had blonde hair, currently in some sort of net so it wouldn't get in the way while she was messing around with her cake. Very nice legs that I had a very clear view of and a nice trim bottom that I was also getting a nice view of. I couldn't see her bust line from the angle I was on, but seeing that she was both shapely and petite I was taking a guess that they would be a nice handful without being overly generous.

"Your husband is safely deposited on the couch," I said softly. "You can sleep easy tonight, knowing he's home."

"Husband, hell," she retorted, not even turning to look at me, which I considered a little rude. "If he was my husband I'd be a widow by now. He's my brother."

"Ah," I murmured, drifting closer to her. "That's sort of a relief."

"Well, I know why it's a relief to me not to have him as a husband, but why is it a relief to you?"

Her dress was already riding high and I pushed it even higher, following up by running my hand across her bottom in a most familiar way.

"Mainly because I'd hate to think I was jumping a workmate's wife," I told her.

"Get your hand off," she snapped. "The goods are not yours for the taking."

The odd thing about that was that she didn't try to knock my hand away, even though she sounded dead serious. Instead she just kept on leaning forward, concentrating on her cake. From what I could see she had a canvas sack in her hand that was spewing out little flurries and curls and even some flowers as she moved it around.

I declined to remove my hand. Instead I continued to caress her bottom, my hand moving slowly towards where her mound was peeking from between her legs, fetching covered in a scrap of black lace. I finally got a reaction when my hand brushed against the lace.

"Will you stop that?" she rapped out. "I'm trying to concentrate here."

And she seemed determined that nothing was going to break that concentration. I wondered how far I could go before she put down what I assumed was an icing bag and turned on me.

My hands travelled back up her bottom. I could feel a little tension drain out of her as I moved away from the more forbidden area, although she still wasn't happy. She was even unhappier when I hooked a hold of her scanty panties and started drawing them down.

"You stop that," she wailed. "If you make me mess up this cake I will kill you."

I didn't stop. I just towed those panties southward until they were wrapped around her ankles. Then I trailed my hands up her legs, choosing to stroke the insides of her legs. She stood it right up to the point where my hand was about to touch her mound.

"Don't," she half wailed. "I swear if you make me muck up this cake I will kill you. I have to get this finished."

Unfortunately, I did. Close my hand over her mound, I mean, not spoil her cake. She gave a squeak and went dead still.

"Please. I can't decorate while you're doing that. Just leave me alone."

Unfortunately, I was now rather interested in what I was doing. Her pussy felt nice and warm and fit rather neatly in my hand. I continued to rub it, slowly but firmly, feeling her lips moving under my touch.

"How much longer is it going to take you to finish doing the icing?"

"Fifteen minutes and then I've got to get it delivered. Now just leave me alone so I can work."

"Hmm. No. I think you just worry too much. You're much too tense. Just try to relax a little. What I'm doing will help you."

"My god, your generosity is overwhelming. How can I possibly thank you?"

Dear me. Such cutting sarcasm and from such a sweet young thing.

"Don't bother thanking me," I said. "Being helpful is its own reward."

"Stop what you're doing right now or I will take steps to hurt you," she told me, speaking clearly and slowly to help me with my apparently limited understanding.

In reply I unzipped and slipped my erection between her legs, letting it press up against her slit, rubbing it slowly back and forth. I estimate it took her about one thousandth of a second to spot what was now touching her.

"What the fuck do you think you're playing at?" she demanded. "You don't suppose for even one fucking second that I'm going to allow a complete stranger to have sex with me? You're insane. Now back off."

"Don't be like that," I lamented. "Think of it as taking a compulsory rest break. You'll be wonderfully relaxed, and eager to continue working afterwards."

By this time I'd changed the angle of my erection slightly. Instead of rubbing against her slit it was gently pressing up into it.

"Oh, god, don't you dare," she squealed, and then squealed a lot louder when she found that her lips had considered the matter and decided to part, letting me in.

Geez, the squealing and protesting that woman put up just because she was being given a little unexpected pleasure. I couldn't understand the fuss. It's not as though I'm greatly oversized or anything like that. Taking my time, I gave her plenty of time to adjust, just sliding slowly deeper while her passage softened before me, letting me past. Still, she didn't stop her protesting until I was fully in place.

"Geez, relax a little, woman," I suggested. "Just move slowly with me. You'll find yourself remembering how to do it soon enough."

"What's that crack supposed to mean?" she demanded. "I know what to do. I just don't want to do it with you."

"Oh. The way you were carrying on I thought you were a born again virgin. Now I find it's just because you're racist."

"Racist? Just because I don't want to be raped?"

"Yes. Racist. Would you be carrying on like this if I were white?"

She twisted her head to look at me, stark disbelief in her eyes.

"What do you mean, if you were white? You're whiter than I am, you maniac."

"That's another racist remark," I grumbled. "You shouldn't accuse a man of being white just because of his skin colour."

"I was right. You are insane," she muttered.

She turned back to looking at her cake. I started to get a little hip action underway. I pulled back a little and pushed slowly back into place, feeling her pushing tentatively against me. Things didn't feel quite right.

"If you bend over a little more and stick your pretty little tush out a bit further we can try that again."

She hesitated for a moment then did as suggested. I tried again and found the action a lot smoother. Her reaction seemed somewhat smoother, too.

"Good girl," I told her. "That was better. Let's try that again."

We tried it again, with her giving a little gasp this time as I slid back in. I kept things nice and slow for a while, letting her get accustomed to the feel of me. It wasn't all that long before she was breathing hard and bumping back against me with an inbuilt eagerness. She was naturally passionate and her responses quickly went from resigned, to OK, to eager.

At this stage I was now banging her with a will, driving in hard. Even so I found time to ask her an important question.

"Have we got time to pause this for a moment while I finish stripping you? I'd really like to hold your breasts while we do this."

What with her top and jumper and apron and probable bra her breasts were effectively out of reach. I'd much rather they were within reach.

"No," she snapped. "You're the one who started this. You can just keep going until you either finish or die. Either result will be acceptable."

Put like that I decided to continue using my erection to beat some manners into her. Playing with her breasts could wait for another day. I bounced against her, driving in hard, relishing the feel of her and the way she was responding.

Actually, the way she was responding, I was getting the feeling that she was watching the clock and hurrying us up to meet a predetermined time. Not that I was complaining. She might have been urging me on at a faster pace than I would have chosen but she was doing it in a manner that was hard to refuse.

The ending, when it came, came suddenly, and I'm damn sure she orchestrated it. I was just happily humping along and she did something with her internal muscles. I'm not sure what she did but wow, I was suddenly out of control, thrusting in hard and spilling my load. It also seemed that what she did was enough to trigger her own climax, and she was quietly gasping in a way that sounded as though it was a muffled scream.

She stayed bent over the table for a minute or so, breathing deeply. Then she slowly straightened and looked over her shoulder at me, giving me a look that said vengeance shall be mine. Not right now, but sometime, when I'm ready. Then she turned back to finish the decorating of her cake.

I watched for a few moments. She seemed a lot calmer now, adding the little flourishes with a deft hand, her previous agitation greatly reduced. I'd plainly done her a good turn. A thought occurred to me.

"Um, you said after you've finished the icing you're going to deliver the cake," I observed.

"I am, and despite you, I have plenty of time."

"Uh, yeah, but I was wondering how you intend to deliver it. I didn't notice any car outside."

"I'll be using Jack's, of course."

"That's fair enough, but I drove Jack home in my car. His car is still at the pub."

"Then I'll walk to the pub and get it," she snapped, sounding irritated.

"Long walk," I said dryly.

"No, it's not. I can cut through the park and be there in five minutes."

"Maybe, but that's your pub. Jack's car is in Lawndale at the Bulldog Pub. That's a bit far to walk."

There was dead silence for a moment, then she turned and gave me a look.

"That's still not a problem," she said. "You will drive me there and I'll pick it up."

I was going to demur, for it was a half hour drive, but the look on her face suggested it would be rather foolish to do so. So, OK, I was in for a long drive. It'd still been a fun afternoon.

I watched as she picked up the cake.

"I'd put that down if I was you," I said quickly.

"Why?"

Why do women always question you when you suggest they do something?

"If you try to walk with it you're going to fall flat on your face. For some reason your panties seem to be tangled around your ankles."

And if they had tripped her I just knew she'd have blamed me. It wasn't my fault that she'd forgotten to pull them up. As it was she hastily put the cake back down, kicked her panties off and raced out of the room. She marched back in a few minutes later, wearing tights.

She produced some boxes from somewhere and put the cake in them in sections.

"Just remember to drive carefully," she stressed. "If you have any sort of an accident the cake will be ruined and so will you."