Monday, November 24, 2008

Pastry Porn

Vintage postcards above at ETSY!

A tender crumb of the tale – best served in bed, on a tray -- yes, a little tray with a rose and a newspaper and a steaming pot of fresh French press in a finely appointed room above a busy street in Paris. Naked, of course, and preferably served to you by the likewise nude and incredibly naughty and furiously horny pâtissier himself.

A real croissant screams when you tear it – when you pull its tender layers apart with your fingers. Listen. If it doesn’t shriek in ecstasy when you rip the elegant fibers of butter and yeast and salt and heat, run, for it is an imposter.

_______________________________

Yearnings yet undiscovered
KM

This is not a true story. What I mean is, though it may be true, it’s not truly a story – by definition. There is no beginning, middle or end.

There is only up. And down. In. And out. There is cold marble. There is lubrication in the form of butter and oil, and hot, impatient lust. There is pure, undying passion. There is yeast and air and salt. There is a small crystal glass of Grand Marnier. There is a yellow cab weaving in and out of traffic, rosary beads dangling from its shattered rearview mirror, and Mexican polkas blaring on its radio. There is a driving rain. There is a glowing city. There are lips – and not ordinary lips, mind you. These are lips on fire, fire and furor! Grinding and sparking like a blade pressed to the steel sharpening wheel and melting as thick and caramel as hot sugar molecules shaken and frenzied atop blue flame into syrup. There are heavy, antique breadboards (perhaps the most important thing of all, aside from the man who wields them) some that are centuries-old, glazed with a fine patina of the laying-on of hands and streaked black, the scorch marks of hot, hot ovens. There are heavy sacks of fine pastry flour. There is a cool subterranean cellar where bricks and tubs of fine Pamplie butter lie waiting to be warmed with pressed palm, transformed by wheat and heat. Finally, there is a dark storage closet, brick-lined, of course, whereupon the tale, not story, commences rising.


*******


Valérie refused to let him up, was not about to release him from her grip. Not yet. Just a little longer. Her ass cheeks and thighs still stung, red and burning from the “beating” as she liked to call it. “Beat me strong. Smack me sane, you dirty madman.” Her nipples likewise were buzzing, the salt dough of her breasts kneaded warm and light, causing her pert, aching nips to warble like songbirds on a wire, singing a racy song as she lay panting atop a hundred-pound sack of King Arthur flour.

That’s what Valerie believed, that she was holding him to her, but in actuality it was the pâtissier, the thick-armed, nimble-fingered Bruno, who had her pinned, bound with kitchen twine, to the cotton sack like a hunted thing. He would take her again. And again. He would slap her to pink, then red, then blue with those ancient paddles, intricately carved patterns, scrolls, leaves, wheat sheaves, and sometimes the calligraphically knifed Pain (bread, in French, is “pain.” How apropos, no?) marking her tender skin.

It wasn’t like this in the beginning. Not at first, when Bruno was nothing but a timid instructor, a shy immersion school teacher, his yearnings yet undiscovered, his desires buried like fists in the proofing dough. Now, however, it was an entirely different story. Now he could not look at his wall of breadboards without hearing her sighs, her cries. The brittle, heavenly shriek of a croissant being ripped open by hungry fingers during the early morning rush at the patisserie, a small but venerated shop in the 10th Arrondissement of Paris, once made him dizzy with desire for perfection. The crackling sound like broken lungs as it entered the lips. The sigh, the moan. Leave them wanting more. Watching them sway on their elegant pumps as they licked crumb from lip. Now it made him hard, the sound of need as it was to him now, because of her. A sound that made him want to reach to the wall, grip the handle of a board right then and there. A sound that stiffened his cock like nothing else, like nothing he’d ever known.

Next: Hmmm. Not sure. Perhaps it is the deconstruction of a dough package.

2 comments:

Neve Black said...

Damn girl! That's awesome.

I see can a beginning, a middle and the end. Pleeeassse continue.

Kirsten Monroe said...

Thanks Neve! Well, maybe I'll be inspired while making Thanksgiving pies.