Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Anal

Carrie was bored. Bored and hungry. Takeaway wasn’t really an option this close to payday and, at this time of evening, she couldn’t be bothered to go to the shop. She had been home from work for hours now and a glance out of the blinds told her it was getting dark. Even her evening meal was becoming a fading memory as another boring night alone closed in around her.

She tried to distract herself with Netflix but found herself watching a re-run of Bake Off almost subconsciously. Ten minutes in, her mouth watering at the sight of a carrot cake being iced, she gave up on the idea of distraction and pulled herself off the settee with a sigh of resignation. Even moving a few feet into the kitchen felt like a chore, but the idea of a belated dessert wouldn’t go away.

Luckily — or unluckily, depending on whether exhaustion or hunger was winning the battle for her heart and mind at any given moment — she had everything she needed in the cupboards. She dumped some plates into the sink for Future Carrie to deal with and laid out the ingredients for Some Kind of Cake. She hadn’t really decided what she was making yet, so she continued to scour her cupboards for a sign.

After a few minutes foraging, several disappointed sighs and one minor head bump, Carrie was none the wiser. Then it hit her (not the top of the cupboard this time): she still had leftover ingredients for buttercream from the cupcakes she had made for work a couple of weeks ago. They had gone down a treat, so much so that she had barely gotten a bite, she remembered with only a mild pang of bitterness.

That wouldn’t be an issue now, though. It was all for her.

She pulled the plastic container out of the fridge, grinning as she dipped a finger into the pink sludge and taste-tested it. Still good, and nobody to share it with this time. She’d be munching delicious cupcakes within the hour.

She more or less remembered the recipe from last time but opened the bookmarked page on her phone for reference just in case. As she cracked the first egg, though, her phone buzzed with a message. A little chat bubble popped up and without looking closely she easily recognised it as Scott.

Instinctively, boredom getting the better of her, she reached for the phone. She instantly regretted her decision. The cracked egg in her left hand, forgotten in her haste to see what Scott had to say, spilled out over her right hand and across the kitchen work top, creating a gooey yellow puddle.

‘Fuck,’ she cursed, quickly moving her phone out of the way before too much of the yolk got on it.

That, at least, was a success, but her elbow ended up pressing into the bag of icing she had left splayed open.

‘Eww,’ she groaned, but it came with an involuntarily giggle. Then she shivered as her forearm sank into the inch-thick layer of pink buttercream. So much for a quick and easy treat, she thought, pink gunk clinging to her bare arm. At least she’d had the sense to take her hoodie off before she’d started.

She would have to get rid of the goo before she carried on, though. Putting her phone down, she stepped over to the sink, which was just a couple of feet away and leaned in awkwardly to get the messy part of her arm beneath the faucet. She grabbed the tap with her free hand, but, at the same time, her phone vibrated noisily on the hard surface of the kitchen top. She jolted, turning instinctively to face it.

With her hand still gripping the tap, this sudden movement turned it almost all the way to full power. Cold water blasted her arm and sprayed back towards her, thanks to the angle of said arm. It took Carrie a second to realise what was happening and another second to put a halt to it. In that time, though, the front of her flimsy grey tank top was utterly drenched.

The cold water had hit her just below her breasts, but the force of the deflected torrent had made a huge, dark wet patch spread out from there. Gravity, of course, made sure that the lower half was saturated too, meaning that the front of her top was completely wet through from top to bottom. It clung tightly to her chest and stomach, unpleasantly cold.

‘Ugh,’ Carrie complained to an empty kitchen, looking down at herself to survey the damage. She flicked her wrist in an attempt to dislodge some of the water but it made little difference — a drop in the ocean.

There was no time for ruing her misfortune, though. The wetness was spreading quickly, already making the waistband of her jeans somewhat damp. A small puddle was forming on the floor, too, dampening her socks. Cringing at the feeling of soggy fabric, she stepped out of the puddle and peeled her top over her head. The action left a thin sheen of wetness on her face, but that was the least of her problems right now.

The water-drenched tank top being removed was a relief, at least — literally a weight off her shoulders. The pretty white bra underneath, with matching white lace trim and pink stitching had survived the ordeal largely unscathed. Carrie could feel that it, too, was wet, kocaeli escort but it was nowhere near as bad as the top she had just taken off. Craning her neck to get a look at her chest, she saw that the bra didn’t even have any tell-tale dark patches.

She pulled her socks off next. They were much worse off, so much so that they even squelched when the act of removing them wrung out several drops of water.

‘Fuck it,’ she said to no-one, deciding she’d deal with the spillage later. It was only a tiny puddle anyway, and on the laminate flooring of her kitchen it wasn’t going to cause any long term harm in the brief time it would take to finish the cakes.

She stepped over what water there was and finished cleaning her elbow as best she could, more careful this time, before picking up her phone to see what Scott wanted.

It was a fucking meme, she realised, rolling her eyes. Not even a good one. She’d made all this mess because of a screenshot from their favourite sitcom with some out-of-context yellow text replacing the real subtitles. The follow-up message, the one that had resulted in her involuntary one-woman wet t-shirt contest, was just a crying-with-laughter emoji.

She didn’t even bother to reply with half-arsed “LOL.” She put her phone down, let out a sigh of frustration and took a deep, calming breath. Time to get back to work, she told herself, taking great care to avoid spilling any more ingredients. She wasn’t going to let a poor meme ruin her hard work. The eggs and flour soon made it into the mixing bowl without further drama, and she even managed to move the bag of icing to safe place for later.

Next up was the mixing. Luckily, Carrie had an electric mixer, so it wasn’t necessary to do it the old-fashioned way and risk exerting herself. It was the work of mere seconds to get the whole thing set up and attach the mixing bowl full of gunk that would eventually become, soft, moist sponge. She set that process in motion with a flick of a button, and the mixer began whirring away. Then it sped up, she noted with confusion and alarm. Then it sped up even more.

Carrie leaned in, peering into the bowl to figure out what was happening. The machine sped up again, with perfect comic timing, and flung a thick glob of half-formed cake batter in her face. It splattered thickly across her nose, cheek and eyelid. With a yelp, she flinched backwards, wiping the slop from her eye so she could at least see what was happening. Somehow, the button had got stuck and the mixer was showering the walls and worktop of her kitchen with thick yellow slime.

She quickly assessed the situation and realised she had two options. One option was to brave the onslaught, dislodge the stuck button and cut her messy losses, but end up splattered in mess herself. Alternatively, she could wait it out, allow the mixer to toss batter everywhere until it ran out, but at least keep herself clean and deal with the mess afterwards. Peering gingerly into the bowl, she ruled out the second option. There was far too much mixture in there to just let it play out. It would be far too much clean-up, not to mention the wasted effort she had already sunk into the cake mix.

No, she had to brave the shower of batter, she knew. At least she wouldn’t be getting her clothing any messier, having already removed the soaked tank top. The bra, pretty thought it was, could probably survive a few streaks of sugary gunk. Anyway, her kitchen backed onto the small courtyard in the middle of her block of flats and she was fairly sure people opposite and above could see in if any of them were home. She needed to get this over and done with.

She paused a moment, trying to figure out if there was any pattern in the onslaught of gunk that she could try and use to time her approach. She couldn’t find one, though, and time was of the essence. She gritted her teeth in anticipation of what was to come and ducked towards the bowl, hands in front of her face in a feeble attempt to protect it from the worst of the muck. It helped for a moment, batter slapping against her wrists, forearms and chest, but she had to move her hands towards the machine to remedy the problem and her face was soon flecked with thick slime.

She turned her face to one side, watching her handiwork out of one squinting eye. The other side of her face was quickly becoming slathered in the stuff. She felt it clinging to her jet black hair. Still, the button wouldn’t budge. It was stuck fast, presumably made worse by the sugary mess the machine was spurting all over itself. As soon as Carrie turned face-on to fountain of batter, she was hit with a thick splodge of it across her chest and chin. She shuddered at the cloying feeling of it oozing down her chest, nestling in her bra against her breasts. It all happened in a few seconds, but she felt as though the batter was taking its time, making sure it didn’t leave an inch of her chest untouched.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ she grumbled. But there really was no other option — she had to kocaeli escort bayan free the button before it was too late. She tried to console herself with the fact that her body was easier to clean than the kitchen, but it was tough to find solace in that while being splattered relentlessly and mercilessly.

After several seconds of fidgeting hopelessly with the offending button, it dawned on Carrie that she could just turn it off at the mains. Why didn’t I just do that in the first place? she thought to herself, reaching past the bowl. It earned her several more streaks of gunk across her lips, chin and cheeks, but she turned the socket off and killed the whole operation in a heartbeat.

Sagging with relief, Carrie took a moment to take stock of her situation. She had indeed body-blocked much of the batter, which was good in a way, but also meant she was slathered in thick yellow gunk. It was all over her upper torso, her face looked like something out of a bukkake movie and her previously pristine hair had specks of the stuff clinging to it, drying more quickly than she would have liked. She wasn’t sure whether the fact that the slop in her bra and across her chest was still sticky was any better, though.

Another look down told her that the damage on that front was worse than she had realised. Both cups of her pretty white bra were filled to the brim with sticky, sweet sludge. How it had got into the tight gap between her breasts and the fabric was a mystery, but not a pressing one. She contemplated taking it off and carrying on topless. She had no qualms about walking around her own kitchen topless, at least in theory, but another glance at her very public kitchen window watered the seed of doubt that had already been growing in her mind. She could never be sure that she was unseen, naked or otherwise. If only the landlord wasn’t so lax about fixing the blinds in the kitchen, she thought ruefully.

After 18 months living here with her laissez faire attitude towards getting dressed, she assumed that she had been seen in some state of undress by most of her neighbours some time or another. At least, the ones opposite with a view of her kitchen window. Knowingly undressing in front of the most visible part of her flat was another matter altogether, though. It just felt different. For one thing, if anyone had seen her parading around in her bra moments ago, removing even more clothing wasn’t likely to stop them watching. It almost seemed to Carrie that she would be guaranteeing an audience if she removed her bra.

On top of that, being conscious of the fact that she could be seen, and then undressing even further felt very different to innocently wandering around her flat in her underwear and potentially being spotted by a peeping tom. The two scenarios would look very different on a police report, she thought. Plausible deniability would be flying straight out of that window.

The alternative — continuing with a bra full of gunk sloshing around her breasts — didn’t seem ideal either. It was already making her uncomfortable, and the longer she waited, the worse the situation got. The cake mix was a long way from drying, but it would happen eventually. All the while, she was still cringing at the sticky feeling of it pressed against her skin.

Screw it, she figured, it’s too gooey. I’ll take my chances. She unclipped the bra and it joined her tank top in a wet heap in the corner of the kitchen. She wiped away as much of the gunk from her breasts as her hands could manage and steeled herself against the sticky feeling of what was left.

It was oddly liberating to stand around topless, especially when she was able to ignore the sticky, clammy sensation where batter still clung to her. Enjoy the show, creeps. This is my domain and I can bake topless if I want to — and look fucking good doing it. Pity I don’t have time to do a proper job of cleaning myself up first, though.

Getting back on track, she scooped up the batter from the worktop and put it back in the bowl with the rest. The stuff that had splattered on the walls or the floor she left alone for the time being. There would be less mix than she had set out to make, but there was no way she was eating floor cake.

She double-checked the machine this time, making absolutely, positively sure the settings were right and that nothing was stuck or pressed down that shouldn’t have been. When she was satisfied there would be no repeat performance, she turned it back on, took an instinctive step back and squinted reflexively.

It rumbled to life, and… nothing bad happened. Carrie sagged with relief as the blades whirred and whirled, exactly enough to mix the dough and no more. Topless and sticky she may be, but soon she would have cake and it would all have been worth it.

She contemplated leaving the mixer to its own devices and sorting herself out, but she didn’t quite trust it to behave. It wouldn’t take long now, anyway. Besides, she was still riding the initial wave of adrenaline escort kocaeli from her recent liberation. Carrie had always enjoyed being less than fully dressed and finding a new spot to get away with it, even in her own flat, was quite the boon. Any anxiety she had previously felt about being seen was quickly melting away, replaced by a sense of freedom and something unexpected. Am I enjoying this, she asked herself? The realisation caught her completely off-guard, but there was no keeping the thought out once it had crept in.

Looking down at herself, half-dressed, sticky and wet, then back out of the window, she noticed that her pulse was racing a little quicker than normal. She couldn’t pin it to having had to very quickly deal with the batter disaster; she was fit enough that her pulse should have settled to normal by now if that were the case.

Similarly, she was sure it wasn’t the sticky batter that was doing it. The thought of the stuff made her notice the unpleasant sensation afresh, made her shiver unpleasantly.

Another glance out of the window, looking for prying eyes across the courtyard, made her heart flutter and the truth suddenly seemed clear: she wanted to be seen. The fact that she was disappointed, and only partially relieved, when she couldn’t see anybody watching her alleviated any doubt.

Well now. That explains quite a lot, doesn’t it?

Her foray into psychoanalysis was cut short when she remembered the cake mix. She caught a glance of it in the corner of her eye and remembered it should be done by now. It was a little overdone, stretchier than she would have liked, but still perfectly useable, she was relieved to find. Now to get it into the muffin tray. She grabbed a spatula and started depositing thick yellow blobs into the cases she had already placed into the divots in the metal sheet, doing her best to flatten them out and keep each blob relatively even.

Not much can go wrong with this part, at least.

Despite the earlier spillage, Carrie still had a sizeable amount of mix to dole out. She found her mind wandering again as she worked almost automatically — dig, splat, smooth, repeat. She stared blankly out of the window while she did it, wondering if it was the thought of being seen topless that had her excited or the threat of it. After all, she wouldn’t want to bump into any neighbour that did happen to look over at the wrong (or was it right?) time. She also wondered if taking the rest of her clothes off, or some of them, might be fun, but decided against it. One step at a time, eh.

It was in the middle of this last train of thought that she realised something was wrong. Maybe I could just take my jeans off. The worktops would probably keep most of me out of sight anyway. Hmm, why do I feel like there’s batter on my tits again? Oh.

Looking back down at her handiwork, she saw that she had been piling the cake mix into the same spot for god only knew how long. She had shifted her weight, or readjusted her position without thinking about it, and her breasts were dangling heavily in the piled-up slime. She shuddered and pulled herself up again as soon as she realised her mistake, but the well-mixed batter clung to her like glue and the whole tray came with her. Dropping the spatula, she dislodged the tray with both hands, which improved matters, but still left her perky breasts coated in batter.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ she cursed. ‘What is wrong with me today?’

Instinctively, she tried to wipe away the goo with her hands. It worked to an extent, but it wasn’t enough to get rid of everything and she wound up with cake mix — now much stickier and thicker than before — clinging to her hands, as well. She growled in frustration, looked around for a better solution to her problem, and growled again when nothing presented itself.

Her next thought was to go and get a quick shower, but she didn’t think the mixture could survive much longer without spoiling and she wasn’t going to let that happen after all she had been through. No, she decided, I’ll just have to press on and get this fucking thing finished.

She suppressed yet another shudder and did her best to smooth over the would-be-cakes wherever her breasts had disturbed them. Concentrating fully on the task in hand, she filled the last few spaces with batter, smoothed their surfaces over so that they more closely resembled unfinished cakes instead of formless piles of goo.

Satisfied that they were as good as they were likely to get — and remembering they were only for her, anyway — she let out a sigh of relief. If the cakes were a little overworked, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. They wouldn’t look great, but again, that didn’t really matter: nobody else would see them. Despite everything, matters could have been worse. She slid the tray into the oven and settled down with her phone again. Nothing left to do now but wait.

Nothing on her phone piqued her interest, though. She had spent so much of the evening listening to the TV and browsing reddit on her phone that she had read everything remotely interesting on her favourite subs. Her mind wandered back to the state of her clothing, the idea of being seen, the way that last part gave her goosebumps. I could take off my jeans, she thought, picking up the thread of an earlier thought process.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32