FSE

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The sun does not yet grace the City of Anteronia; the city doesn't sleep. On the corner of Innocence Avenue, nestled in an old house, repurposed as part of a sprawling local business district, the fires of ovens already burn. Deep in the kitchen, the wooden creation works when no others have clocked in for the day. The mannequin stirs the batter, kneads the dough, and sets the timer. All of this is done as part of a ritual he’s worked on ever since his life was graced by a certain pink kobold who gave him everything he needed.

He pours the newest batter into the mold and sticks it inside the giant oven, turning and humming to himself as he mixes the frosting. He then slides some wax paper by the oven and places the frosting beside it, hanging up his chef's hat and apron before going off to his other duties. He doesn't grow idle, even in the long time it takes to bake the treat, take stock of ingredients, and work on tables, but as the hours pass, the excitement grows within him. He places a hand over where his heart would be and shudders all over, his form falling limp, collapsing on the table before him.

When he awakens, he pushes himself out of the mold and is beautiful. Naked but without all the finer touches, the Baker steps out with dainty feet onto the wax paper. He takes a spatula, slips the frosting on it, and lathers it over his head, humming and bouncing to the beat of his little song.

Once his hair is in place, he shuffles along, perusing through a drawer of candies, pulling from them two perfectly blue beads and setting them in his eyes. With a blink, he flutters those perfect peepers and then steps toward the caramel that's been hardening. He plucks them up and places them on his eyelids, blinking and letting those lashes flutter. That's when he dips a finger into the strawberry jam, swirling around, pressing it to his lips, slipping around and puckering, leaving his mouth glazey and delicious.

The door to the bakery opens, and through it steps a human woman, slightly plump but exhausted. She yawns as she shuffles off to the back, passing the dining area and heading back toward the lockers.

"Oh, Libi, darling!" Baker says, throwing on his apron and slipping on his slippers. He skips over toward her. "You caught me putting on my face. Am I that late today?"

"Oh, hey, boss," Libi says, stretching. "Yeah, I'm not late if that's what you're asking."

"Oh my," Baker sighs. "Well, I'd better get dressed. There’s no need to doll up anymore, I suppose. Could you be a dear and stuff me in the bedroom?"

Libi nods and approaches the mannequin, hefting its arm over her shoulder. She walks past the kitchen and towards the back once more. "You gotta stop leaving this lying around."

"Oh, you know me," Baker says, slipping one foot into a pair of dainty edible underwear and then the other, sliding it up to cover what the apron barely concealed. I'm always so absent-minded when it comes to the old vessel."

Libi places the body in the old bedroom, sighing as she glances over the sparsely decorated space. "Baker, do you even use this place for anything?"

Baker pokes his head in and saunters past her. "Oh, but of course, my dear," he says, opening the closet door. Within is a cornucopia of clothing. He tosses off his apron and then slips on his jacket, twirling around and buttoning it before her. "It's where I keep all my fashion."

"Never really thought about how you don't sleep… I'm jealous."

"Oh, don't be," Baker says, patting her cheek. "There are many things afforded to those who can sleep that I simply do not have the luxury of having. Now, then, make sure the front of the house is stocked. I have the others to greet!"

Having found and slid on his pants and shoes, Baker hums as he trots down the hall and to the front door, stepping outside and holding his arms wide. "Hello, world! Let's make it another great day for everyone, shall we!?"

Among the usual throng of assistants and employees joining him for his daily ritual, another individual stands across the street, watching him. She dresses in a business suit, a rabbit creature with her ears tied back and glasses resting over her red eyes. She carries a parasol in her hand without the sun even being up yet. When she and Baker make eye contact, she steps forward, her heels clicking over the pavement, and she produces paper from her jacket. "Baker, of Baker's Bakery?”

"Why yes, that's me, Darling, how could you tell?"

"I represent the interest of Brownie's Bakery. You're being sued.”

Baker snatches the paper, his eyes buzzing over it. "Whatever does all this mean?"

"Speaking frankly, Mr. Baker," says the lawyer, "You're illegally operating this business."

"That's absurd! I have my license inside. I'll show any law officer who wants to see it immediately!"

"The fact of the matter is that under Anteronian City Regulations, you misfiled your license.”

"Impossible! How!?"

"Simply put, Mr. Baker, it's because you registered as the owner and operator when legally speaking… you're kitchen equipment."

"Kitchen equipment… can you believe it?" Baker scoffs, tossing the notice aside. He replaces his toque with a cap and his jacket with a simple shirt. "I’ll show them I’m legally a person. All I need is to get my construction details, and then they’ll see!"

"You want to have some help with that?" Libi asks. "I… I don't think I'm quite helpful in that regard, but I’m sure someone here knows someone who--"

"That shall not be necessary, Libi," says Baker, opening his traveling case and draping his finger over the assortment of tools and other items. He pulls out a whisk and whisks it over toward Libi. "This is a tool. I mean, really, do I look like this to you? It's ridiculous!"

Libi's eyes trail over toward the mannequin's body, lying lifeless on the bed. "I have a… complicated relationship with the law, so I could kinda see where they're getting at."

Scoffing, Baker tosses the whisk back into the case and slams it shut. "Libi, you're in charge while I'm gone. I trust the Bakery won't explode while the… equipment is away."

He pats his hand on her shoulder, a wistful smile on his strawberry lips, but waits a moment before rushing out to the carriage.

Tossing his case in its compartment, he sighs, sits back, rubs his fingers over his eyes, and groans.

"Someone seems upset today," comes the voice across from him.

Baker jumps. "Oh, I didn't know I'd share this ride."

Across from Baker sits an older gentleman, turtle-like, dressed in a fine suit that covers his broad body. There's a bluish tint to his reptilian form with larger spikey plates on his half-gloved hands.

"The luxury of taking less-than-private transportation," says the older gentleman," is that you get to share your trips with exciting people for no additional cost."

Baker smirks softly, shrugging. "Well, I'm afraid I won't be as sweet of company as I would normally be, sir, but I assure you I am usually a more amicable treat."

"You are Baker, are you not?" the turtle asks. "I am Caravaggio, and I must apologize for not patronizing your establishment for catering my parties or for more private situations."

Baker quirks an eyebrow, turning to look the turtle in the eye. "Oh, signore, you don't have to apologize to me. I'll gladly offer you my card if you wish."

"I'm wondering," says the gentleman turtle, stretching his neck slightly, adjusting his tie, "If you'd be willing to offer part of your services right now."

Baker frowns, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm sorry, but If you want the special, there's a waitlist, and I must know your food allergies. I don't want anyone choking while they have this delicious dish."

"I wasn't thinking about being the one choking, good sir."

Baker bites his lip, leans back, and spreads his arms and legs. "My trip shouldn't take longer than twenty minutes, good sir."

"Plenty of time. You look tense. Don't you wish to relax?"

Baker chuckles, taps his finger, and looks out the window. "This will cost you, of course."

"Of course," the gentleman says, pulling a few shining coins from his jacket pocket. And I'm willing to offer you extra for your time and effort. You need only use your mouth."

Baker scratches the seat, gulping. He then scoots off from his seat and to his knees in front of the larger male. "Very well, then," he says, throwing off his hat and putting it on his seat. He reaches down, crossing his arms over each other and gripping the bottom of his shirt. Lifting it, he reveals the soft, chocolatey body underneath.

"Baked simply to perfection," says Caravaggio. What a delight you are." The turtle man's massive hand reaches down, unbuttoning his pants. He lifts his hips, holding onto the back of his seat for support.

Baker lifts his hands over the man's thighs, looking up at him with fluttering uncovered eyes and gripping that outfit, pulling it down.

From beneath the outfit blooms the older gentleman's cock, large and swollen.

"Oh my, Mr. Caravaggio," the baker says, placing his dainty hand at the side and gently stroking along the length. What a great length this is. You must have many stories of your conquests throughout the years."

He doesn't wait for the turtle to respond before he tilts in, kissing up and down the side. His once-stress-filled gaze now sparkles with delight, which he had lacked before.

The gentleman sits back, pressing his head against the wall. "Ah… now that is service with a smile," he sighs. "Please, enjoy me as much as you like."

"Oh, I intend to," Baker says, licking his lips. He kisses right at the head, which bulbs out and flutters, giggling the femboy beneath him. "Someone seems quite surprised."

"Oh, indeed," says Caravaggio, placing a large hand on Baker's head. He presses Baker forward, smushing the femboy's lips up against that cock.

Baker turns his gaze, letting the pre-cum stained thing draw a mark along his cheek. The femboy gets back into the groove by licking down along the shaft, pulling his head free. "Now, Mr. Caravaggio, there's no need to be so rough. Sit back and relax, and I'll take care of everything."

As he speaks, he kisses up along the bottom of that shaft, those soft lips smacking against the throbbing meat, ending with an arrival to the head, where Baker flicks out his tongue and dances along the glans, just at the tip of the head.

"Oh, would I have much more from you"? The turtle groans, gripping his jacket and his hand on his stomach.

Wrapping his hand around the base, Baker opens his mouth wide and envelopes the head within him, staring up as he flicks his tongue up and down that head, watching for the older gentleman's reaction.

The smile that spreads across the turtle man's face is enough to make the Baker's heart flutter…

…if he had one, that is.

That may be the problem he now faces.

Baker continues pleasing his passenger partner Caravaggio as the carriage carries them across the city, placing kisses up and down the prominent pecker of the terrapin.

"You take… such pride… in your work," Caravaggio says, refraining from touching the femboy. He's learned from the previous attempt just to let him cook.

Baker responded with a heartfelt hum of agreement as he took the thing into his mouth, sliding that massive thing down his throat, making it bend as it traveled past the back of his mouth, choking that cock with his moist and delicate insides.

Gasping, Caravaggio strains his neck, placing one hand over his chest, the other rubbing over his bald head. "Ooh, by the stars…" the turtle gentleman groans, rocking himself back and forth. "No young man nor lady alive could take all of me thus so with such a… a mouth… Yuh… you truly are a prize, to be sure! A magnificent creation."

Baker closes his eyes, focusing on the task at hand. His ears twitch at that last bit as he dives further down, lifting himself and adjusting his head and neck to accommodate that elongated thing. His only response to those words is gulping and choking coughs, but he doesn't choke, nor does he feel any discomfort from the exchange.

But the words… those are a different story.

Baker pulls his mouth away, gasping, not that he needs the air, leaving the cock hard and slathered in his sugary spit.

Caravaggio groans, one eye-opening. "W… what are you doing? Are you… are you done?"

Baker wraps a hand around that shaft, pressing his palm up against the piece, stroking up and down the long slab of meat. He locks eyes with Caravaggio, a grim determination on his face. "You take my hospitality for granted, calling me a creation."

"T… that's what you a-are, aren't you?"

He increases the pace, taking the whole cock in broad, fast strokes. "I'm a business owner and the best Pastry Chef in this gods-forsaken town," he says, leaning in. He caresses the turtle with his free hand, tilting his head, his lips slightly parted. "And you and everyone else around here need to realize that they can't just mess with me because I wasn't born, understand?"

Caravaggio gulps. “P… puh…please… I can't be a… a mess! I have places to be."

"Lean forward, then," Baker demands, narrowing his gaze, his thumb rubbing over the head with each stroke that gets up there.

Gasping and whining, Caravaggio does as he's told, his hands on the opposite seat, leaning over both, his cock pointed down by Baker's feet. The baker continues to stroke him off, speeding until finally.

"Gaooaaaahahhh!"

The cry is loud, and it is dry, and it is pathetic as the turtle shoots his load all over the floor, leaving a pool of cum between the two of them.

"Of course…" Baker says, pulling his hand away. I'm sure you'll have to pay for the driver's cleaning bill."

“Tha… that was fantastic…” Caravaggio sighs. "You're truly…" he swallows, "a master at… at delights."

"All delights," says Baker, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping off his cum-stained hand. "And you'd do best to remember that."

Caravaggio sits back, stuffing his spent dick back into his pants. He dabs his head with his handkerchief, blowing out a loud breath. "S… something's the matter then, sir Baker?"

The chocolate man slips his jacket back over his shoulders, not bothering to button it up for now, before he sits down, one leg crossed over the other. "Someone's claiming I'm not a legal business owner because I'm not a living being. Can you believe such things?"

The old turtle nods, minding his feet not to deal with the cum puddle. "Ah, yes, well, that is a conundrum. I suppose you are traveling to deal with the legal matters?"

Baker glances outside, his cheek resting on his knuckles. “I'm figuring out a few things. To that end, I must seek out an old friend."

"Well then, allow me to apologize for my poor choice of words during our little quickie," says the gentleman. "It was rude of me not to consider your feelings about yourself."

"I'm just hoping others are as forward-thinking as you, sir Caravaggio," the femboy says, gazing upon the city, his home.

"Well, legitimate business or not, you have gained a new and satisfied customer. I might have some business for you in the coming month.”

Baker smirked at him, buttoning up his jacket and leaving a few at the top uncovered to give the turtle a taste for the eyes. "Thank you very much. I'll have to remember that," he said, opening the door to the carriage.

"Wait… aren't you going to get off at your stop?" Caravaggio calls out.

Standing in the doorway, the baker titters gently. "Oh, well, part of the parameters of my stop is that I don't stop." He grabs his case and hops off the carriage, not missing a step as he swipes his case and heads down the drive of the upper-class district, leaving behind the tasty turtle and the stress-relieving escapades he had for the day.

With a deep breath, he looks up at the mansion before him and sighs. "Well, I suppose everyone has to come home sometime, don't they?" and with that, he approaches the entrance to the Aldevan estate.

The Aldevan Estate is a massive complex in the wealthiest section of the city. It is strange and wonderful that a group of nobles has sustained their fortune and power through fashion and textiles, but magic runs deeply in their blood. So, as Baker approaches, the gates open on their own, recognizing a lost artifact of their kind.

Standing right outside the main entrance emerge two maids, each dressed in puffy sleeves and long socks, their breasts supported by undergarments but fully exposed to the visiting Baker; their undergarments are crotchless as well, revealing to the world their master's proclivity for the shaved vaginas of his serving girls.

Between the two silent handmaids, a taller figure, a dragonkin woman of much distinction, walks up, dressed in an immaculate and modest suit. Her nose is upturned as she sees the newcomer arrive.

"You received my card?" asks Baker.

"We have," The dragonkin says. "But Master Aldevan is busy today.

"And Lady Allison?" Asks Baker

"Lady Allison takes no visitors."

Baker frowns. "I would think my greatest patron would have some time for me in my need. Don't tell me that the matriarch's death has only tightened her noose around her children."

The butler's brow ridge twitches, her teeth showing as she growls. "Very well, you can come on inside, but you shall not speak ill of the one who brought you into this world."

"She merely commissioned someone," Baker says, nodding as he walks inside. One of the maids takes his bag while another holds a hand out.

Baker hands her his hat.

"You may rest in the foyer if you wish and enjoy the amenities provided to you," the dragonkin butler says. "It may be some time before someone speaks to you."

"I have already cleared my schedule for today," Baker responds, following the Maid with his bag into the room. There is a place to sit, and mannequins are standing still, no doubt wearing the latest fashions from Lady Allison's designs.

Baker sits at the seat, eying one of those mannequins, rubbing his chin.

"Can I serve you, sir?" asks the Maid, placing the bag down and standing before him.

"I'm fine. I'm just waiting. Is it all the same to you?"

"May I at least offer you a drink?" she asks, bowing her head. "It is customary from the master's bidding.”

"If you must, then go ahead. What vintage is it?" he asks, not looking at her.

"I am 21 years old, good sir." says the Maid, plinking some ice cubes into a glass.

Baker glances over toward the Maid, watching curiously as he sees her gloved hand slide up to one of her exposed breasts. She squeezes, sighing and closing her eyes as milk streams into the glass, which perks him up.

"Such flow and such volume," he says. "What magic is used in the production?"

The Maid hands the glass over to Baker, who graciously takes it. "It is a spell cast on us by Master Aldevan himself. He appreciates having a fresh supply.”

Baker sips the drink, feeling the slight tingle in his mouth. He swirls the cup and nods in her direction. "I see, that is most interesting. The presentation is exquisite as well. I would need to look into the side effects of such magic. Perhaps I could get one of my girls to partake in such a position. Or even hire one of you. Tell me, darling, what is your name?"

The maid curtsies. "I am Matilda, and employment would have to be between you and Master Aldevan, sir. I can only grant you the use of my services for now."

He puts the glass down and stands up. "Well, I must ask if you feel fairly compensated for such duties and enjoy such things." He says this, placing his finger under her chin and turning her to face him. "Or, if this is a matter of duress or unwanted servitude?"

She looks at him with half-lidded eyes. "I am unsure why you would ask such questions."

He leans in, parting his lips gently as he responds in a whisper. "Because I was forced into service by the previous matriarch when she was still with us."

Matilda nods, getting on her toes, her lips close to his. "You'll be happy to know that Lord Aldevan hires those of us who come to Anteronia specifically to live lives we cannot live anywhere else."

"Well, then that makes the taste all the sweeter,' he says.

"There's only one way to find out," she responds with a smirk.

"Indeed," he nods, lowering down, but as he begins to, she presses her hands to his shoulders and pushes him back down to the chair.

Then, she climbs atop him, sitting up, hoisting her breasts to his face, and leaning down toward him, her nipple right by his lips. "No, by all means," she coos, "sit back and enjoy."

And so, Baker wraps his lip around that nipple, sucking on that teet and letting the warm milk splash over his lips at a gushing speed much faster than nature intended, allowing for someone of his size and stature to enjoy the refreshing and rejuvenating liquid.

When he pulls back, he reaches for his handkerchief, but she lowers herself down, pressing her tongue to his chin and lapping up her excretion. When she does, she hugs gently.

"It isn't often I allow others to have a free taste," Baker admits.

The door to the foyer opens and in steps the robust form of Lord Aldevan, a gregarious grin upon him as he steps up to the seat opposite Baker and his complimentary drink. "Now, there's no need to get overly familiar with the help, my good man," says the lord. He sits down, his legs spread, his fingers steepled. "You were here to discuss business, were you not? I am here, so let's cut to the chase."

Baker coughs and straightens himself up as the Maid leaps off of him and bows, walking away.

"Right, right," says the chef. "I was hoping to talk to Lady Aldevan, but I suppose you can also help me, good Lord Aldevan."

"Anything for the greatest confectioner in town," says the lord.

Baker grips the arms of the seat and coughs. "I was wondering if you knew… exactly how your mother had me built."

Lord Aldevan sits back, blowing into his hands, his brow furrowing. "You wish me to look into the affairs of my mother's commissions. You know how dangerous that is."

Baker nods. "Again, I was hoping to speak to Allison today."

"Again, that shall not be happening," Lord Aldevan says, lifting an empty glass to his maid, Matilda.

She takes it from him, casually squirting her milk as he continues his thoughts.

"Mother had many strange proclivities. They resulted in a few strange situations. My sister's birth… your creation…" he takes the glass of ice-cooled milk to his lips. Sighing, he swirls the drink and stares Baker straight into the eye. "Her death."

Baker grips onto his pants tightly. "A tragedy, to be sure."

"A farce," Lord Aldevan says, picking himself up and walking toward the window. He pulls the blinds aside and stares down into the courtyard. "Always a thrill-seeker, that woman, even to the point of hiring an assassin on herself. It's disgraceful." He slams the cup on the mantle, shaking his head. "It required the greatest lawyer in Anteronia to ensure we didn't lose everything."

Baker is silent momentarily, letting the room cool down before adding, “You could tell me about this lawyer. I need one."

Lord Aldevan scoffs, snapping his fingers.

Matilda scampers up to him, and he grabs her by the waist, pulling her in, sliding his hand down between her legs, fingers petting at her petal.

She sighs and squirms in his touch, and he looks away from her and to Baker. "Perhaps I could give you the name as a final finger to that woman and the trouble she's caused my family." As he says this, he leans in, kissing the nape of Matilda’s neck, making her squirm and blush.

"Perhaps so," says Baker, standing up. "But I still want to know about the golemancer who brought me to life, the wood carver who made my original model, or anything about where I come from."

Lord Aldevan sighs, pulling his fingers away from Matilda and gently letting her go. He briefly considers his stained fingers, rubs them, sniffs the air, and places his hand behind his back. “I could have someone snoop around the records if you desire.”

"Thank you, and I—"

Lord Aldevan holds his unjuiced hand, shaking his head. "But I shall contact my lawyer before we can discuss anything.”

"I can wait. I can pay for their services as well."

"Heh…" Lord Aldevan's smirk quirks at the corner of his lip. "Persistent, aren't you? I suppose that's the truth about someone who does not need rest and cannot tire. Very well. You can entertain yourself with the maid."

"I appreciate it," Baker says, nodding. "I'd like to spend the time waiting in the gallery."

"Of course you would." He motions to Matilda. "Now, if you excuse me, I have the preparations to make."

Matilda approaches Baker, nodding her head. "Follow me, please."

The two head down the large and echoing halls, the silence of their footsteps only broken when Baker speaks. "The last time I was here, it was so loud and filled with many writhing bodies. I'd imagine hosting that masquerade ball was quite an endeavor."

"I wasn't here when that was hosted," Matilda said. "But, I've heard stories." She stops at the doorway that Baker is all too familiar with. "Would that be all, sir?"

"I am curious," the baker replies, stepping on the opposite side of the portal and looking her into her eyes. What a woman like you desires in this world."

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Surely, even the most depraved of minds cannot conceive their lives fully devoted to their desires."

She shakes her head. "There are probably many things you do not know, sir Baker."

Baker frowns at that. "And what makes you say that?"

"If you pardon my speaking out of turn, I could explain more…"

"Go right ahead."

"I understand that golems do not have the same life experience as anyone else. Aoc’s grace does not protect you. You do not know what it means to grow, not like those natural born are."

"That's perhaps the nicest way someone's brought up my nature today," he says, grabbing the handle. I shall wait here in silence. There's no need to accompany me."

She places her hand upon the back of his, steps up to him, and presses her warm body against his arm. "What if I wish to spend my time serving you while you wait?"

"Let me guess… you'd rather be with me than Lord Aldevan."

"I adore Lord Aldevan," she admits, a hand on his back, her breasts squished against him. "But I wish to make you happy… that is why I serve."

He chuckles softly. Well, that's certainly a new outcome," he admits. Come on, Darling, let's discuss this in the gallery. Shall I compare you to the works of art within?"

"You don't need to flatter me, sir Baker. I'm already ready."

He places his hand upon her rear and leads her in, closing the door behind them.

Beyond the forboding doors is the light-starved chamber of Allison Aldevan's gallery. Among the lifeless statues hewn in the figures of mathematically pleasing yet aesthetically offputting figures, Baker walks hand-in-hand with Matilda the Maid.

The woman grips his hand tightly, stumbling through her steps in the echoing hall.

"I would think the help comes in here every once in a while, at least."

"N-no," says Matilda, slightly trembling as she clings closer to Baker. "She handles her affairs, or so I've heard."

"Hm…, you didn't say anything about this before," the Baker says, pulling her close. "Were you trying to spend some more time with me? How bold."

She nuzzles against him, pressing her bare chest up against his jacket.

After a moment, he clears his throat, and she pulls back, covering her chest and mumbling an apology.

Producing his handkerchief, Baker dabs the spots of milk on his coat and waves his hand dismissively. "No, no, it's alright. Getting myself covered in foodstuffs is part of the job, after all. Though…” His voice turns slightly husky as he pops a button. "We might want to keep my outfit from sustaining any more staining, right?" He takes her hand, placing it on his chest.

She shudders, her hand reaching down over his form, feeling over that outer shell, all while he continues to unbutton his top, slowly and surely giving her a feel and a view of whatever sight she has in this darkness.

The Maid bites her lip, spreading his top aside, thumbs moving up to his chest, feeling his nipples and then stroking back down along his sides, fingers feeling under his pants.

"You're a work of art," she says.

"It helps my friend is so good at artistic works," he admits, his hands out, letting her admire him; she brings herself close, presses those full breasts against him, and soon has her lips linger on his.

With her so close, he whispers. "If you want, we could get you out of here—find you a place to work in my Bakery where you can be as lewd as you desire."

She grips his shoulders and leans against his ear, whispering back. "Are you attempting to poach me, Mister Baker? What would Lord Aldevan think of that?"

"It's just a suggestion for the future, should you ever want more opportunities."

She sighs, pressing her lips against his, popping a leg and rubbing over his chiseled body. His tongue slides against hers, greeting her with the mixture of sweet, syrupy saliva, a delectable concoction that makes her delve deeper, gripping onto his cheeks, deepening the kiss, groaning in the desire of one tasting something so forbidden, yet so much wanted!

A warmth glows behind the Baker, bathing the Maid's face in a soft red hue. Her eyes flutter open, hazily transported out of the moment with Baker.

Only to let out a blood-curdling scream, letting go of him, and stumbling back, falling onto the ground, scrambling back toward the door.

Baker whirls around, his face lit by the red light behind him. What he sees is a horrid thing. Its face is much too long, its mouth much too broad, stretched into a smile that is crooked and razor-sharp. Where there should be eyes, there is Nothing but black pits.

Baker sniffs and buttons his shirt, not caring about the milky spots dripping down over his constructed form. "Why, hello there," says the confectioner.

The face turns its head all too quickly, those black pits staring at him from some voided consciousness. It ignores the maid's frantic flailing and screaming.

Matilda flings herself against the door and claws it open, slamming it behind her as she disappears.

"Hello," the face responds with the same cadence as Baker.

"You must be the help for Lady Aldevan. I see Allison's power has grown since last we spoke. Is she in communion?"

The face continues its smile, but it backs up, not moving but appearing further away.

"Right, then I'll follow you," Baker says, his footsteps the only ones moving through the gallery. As he passes the statues, their gaze follows them through the shadows cast by the face's light.

Soon, the face disappears, and a huffing breath heeds him over his shoulder. He finishes buttoning his top and stands straight. "That was rude of you to scare her like that," Baker says, reaching forward to the door before him. "I'll have to talk to Allison about your manners."

The door opens, and the room beyond him is bathed in a deeper crimson than the light emitted by the floating face. Within, arcane and ancient symbols are scrawled all along the walls, leading to a space in the center that glows with the protective power of the spell being cast.

Standing over the center is a woman, thin and tall with greenish skin, horns, and sony protrusions over her naked body. She is reciting things in the old language.

Baker closes the door gently, not disturbing the ritual, and watches as a figure caked in scarlet fluid from within the circle arises, moaning in the pain of its eruption into this world. The figure is thick and powerful, its arms failing about but never reaching the outside of the circle.

The woman's eyes roll from out of the top of her head down to look at Baker, and her demeanor brightens up. She grabs a robe and pulls it over her shoulders, running over toward him and hugging him.

He reciprocates the hug, even as the being from beyond hurls curses in some unknown language, flailing about and wiping at its eyes. "Oh, it's been oh so long, Allison, darling. I see! I've been keeping busy!

Allison Aldevan is a sight to behold. What would be considered aristocratic beauty is marred with the marks of her fiendish heritage—forever scarred is she with the marks of her ancestor's fornications with the beyond. But she radiates warm happiness when she steps away from her old friend—a stark contrast to the raving beast she holds in an occult binding pact behind her.

"So," Baker says, taking a deep breath and watching the demonic entity behind Allison bash its meaty paws against the vibrant barrier. "Was I interrupting anything?"

"Oh, this little thing?" the demonic dabbler says, raising a languid hand and poking at the edge of the field. It glows with a deep purple hue. "Just a little practice so I don't get out of touch with my studies."

The demon groans, falls onto its knees, and bows its head low. Its muscles struggle to push itself up, but it cannot move.

Baker frowns at the sight. "You really should be careful, darling," he muses, walking over towards the summoning circle and squatting before the thing. "After what happened."

Allison frowns, ties the sash of her robe, and sighs, "Yes, well, it's because of my ill-planned actions that I must improve my abilities. But you didn't come here to discuss me, did you?"

Baker shakes his head and stands up, keeping his eyes on the bound creature, his expression somber. "You knew there was something different about me. What did you know about your mother's prized toy before I was constructed?"

Running a hand through her hair, reaching over one of the tell-tale horns that mark her dark origin, she says, "Nothing, but something bothers you. You wish to seek answers. Perhaps there is a way we can manage them."

She snaps her fingers, and the magical barrier wanes. Allison saunters toward a stool and sits on it, leaning forward and crossing one leg over the other.

Uncovered by the obscuring spell, the demon can stand, revealing more of its form. Humanoid in shape, its muscles are as toned, if not more, than the statues that line the halls. When it lifts its bald head, burning eyes are as bright as day, with pinpricks as deep as night, and it stares straight at the construct.

Baker adjusts his collar, feeling the chocolate of his form slowly approaching the melting point as the demon stands, towering over him.

It, or rather, she, stands broader than he, with arms probably as thick as his head, a spade-tipped tail swishing back and forth, and a mouth spread wide in a serrated smile.

Baker gulps, keeping his gaze on the nightmare standing before him. "A-and what exactly is going on here?"

"Tell my friend," says Allison. "There are no secrets between him and I."

The demon chuckles, twisting her head, cracking the neck this way and that, and then stands with those massive arms wrapped under her giant tits. "You walked in on us, ya little twerp, and that's leaving me a bit needy."

His hands press to his cheeks as he blushes. "Oh, my, how inconsiderate of me. I did not realize you two were in a relationship."

The demon snorts, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Nah. This was a booty call. Nothing more got it."

"But for you…" she chuckles, leaning in, her whisper winding its way through his ear. "I know things about you."

Baker holds his hand above hers, waiting a moment before he clasps it and pulls her away from his shoulder. "Is that so? Well, that's rather fortunate, isn't it?"

"I can tell you all sorts of things about who made you. It's quite the scandal in the underworld."

He presses his lips to the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of brown upon it. "Unfortunately, I must decline such a tempting offer. I'm embroiled too much in controversy as it is."

Allison quirks an eyebrow at that, steepling her fingers.

"But, I wouldn't mind offering you some advice, my friend," he says to the demon, patting her hand. "The people of Anteronia are quite tricky. You don't want to get caught up in anything you can't handle." He pats her hand and withdraws, bowing to Allison. "I think I shall leave you to it, yes?"

Allison waves her hand at him, and he returns to the door. Not a moment after he steps through, the demon lunges toward Allison, only to be locked in again by the magic she wields.

Matilda stands on the other side of the door, pale and trembling. In her hands, she holds an envelope.

"Oh, what's this?" Baker says, pinching it between his fingers. He leaves the door open just slightly so the light of the room behind him gives him a place to read. The entrepreneur pours over the documentation, humming here and there as he does.

"I… is everything to your liking?" asks Matilda.

“Yes. I'm pretty grateful to Lord Aldevan for supplying this for me.”

“His attorney is with him in the dining room,” Matilda adds.

“Oh, what a lovely surprise, and I didn’ thave to make a demonic deal to get it, either.”

"OH FUCK!" comes the groan from the demon.

Baker closes the door behind him, giggling. "Let's leave the two of them to their privacy, shall we?"

Matilda shudders and shakes as she walks back to the main wing of the estate with Baker. With all she's been through living in the city of sin, what she observed beyond the door leaves her a woman forever changed, and the companionship of Bakers is somehow not comforting. Who can meet with such an otherworldy being and be so spiritually unscathed?

Matilda stands at the back of the room, ready to listen to the call of any of the four individuals seated around the meeting room table. Her demeanor makes her tense, not only because of the dark and demonic sights she witnessed in the Forbidden Wing but also because of the palpable miasma that hangs between the people seated around the table.

The first is Baker, leaning back slightly, assessing the softening chocolate of his face, mainly rubbing in his temples.

The second is Lord Aldevan sitting to his right.

Across from Lord Aldevan is one unwelcome sight: the leporine lawyer who had served Baker the legal documents only a few hours earlier.

And across from Baker is someone entirely new to him. She dresses in the vocational outfit of a fellow confectioner, her slight body hugged by a brown jacket, her messy hair only just sticking out of the corners of her toque, her brown face flecked with brown freckles, and her brown eyes staring brown daggers at him.

"Well," says the Lord, chuckling through the awkward silence. Who would have thought my legal representation search would yield these results? It's a small city, isn't it, Miss Harrison?"

"Indeed," says the rabbit woman, pushing up her glasses. 'Though, now that it has come to light that I am representing both you and miss Brownie here, I will have to recuse myself from further negotiations. If you wish to pursue your legal action further, I can offer you both alternatives from different firms."

Baker sits up, lacing his fingers together. "No, I think I'm just fine speaking with the cause of all my ills right here, thank you very much."

The brown baker grunts and sits up, leaning in, her hands on the table. "Your problems? You're the one stealing my business!"

"I'm sorry, miss… Brownie, was it? I can't possibly have stolen your business since I never knew you existed."

Brownie rolls her eyes and sits back, folding her arms over her chest. "I don't have time for this." She nods toward Miss Harrison. "Can't you do something about this… thing?"

"I beg your pardon!" Baker says, gritting his perfectly-molded teeth.

Miss Harrison sighs and picks up her things. "I'm afraid I can't speak anymore on this matter. As my last official act, I suggest you cease talking to one another and find a mediator who isn't me. Goodbye and good evening."

She stands up, pulling out her parasol and popping it open before she walks out, leaving just the three at the table and Matilda awkwardly watching the proceedings.

Well, then, this leaves us with a bit of a pickle, doesn't it?" says Lord Aldevan," as I have money invested in both of your ventures, I cannot mediate this situation myself."

Matilda coughs.

The three turn to face her.

"I had some training in conflict resolution," she says. "Maybe, I can…?"

"Not gonna fly," says Brownie, draping one arm over the back of her seat. "You work for Aldevan. There’s no way You’ll be impartial.”

"Easily fixable," says the Lord. He points to Matilda. “You're fired. Clean up your things when you're done here." He then steps up and walks past, whistling to himself.

"W… wh.. Whha? Muh… my lord!"

But he slams the door in her face, leaving her to whimper alone in the tense quiet of the room.

"Well, you're here now, aren't you?" says Brownie. “Sit down and listen up.”

"Must you be so uncouth to the girl?" asks Baker. "She's been through enough today; all she's ever wanted to do was serve."

Brownie scratches behind her ear and motions to Lord Aldevan's chair. "So, as I was saying, I am a bona-fide baker. I spent my time at culinary school. I was born and bred in a long history of brownies and bakers. I could outperform a glorified whisk any day."

"What nerve you have to ignore that I am a thinking and feeling being!" says Baker.

"And you ignore that your very existence threatens my way of life!" snaps Brownie!

"I have a right to live!" Baker shouts!

"Oh yeah? Can you even consider yourself alive?" she snaps.

The two are leaning in on the table, faces just mere inches away from one another, leaving the poor Matilda between them. She places her hands between them, spreading them apart and getting them to sit back down. "Everyone, everyone, please! It's been a stressful day for all of us. Let us sit back and think rationally about this."

The two bakers fold their arms over their chests and look away, harumphing indignantly.

Clapping her hands together, Matilda takes a deep breath. "Okay. This is what I'm thinking. You need to get to know each other better to understand your side of the argument.”

"If she can speak to me, sure," waves Baker.

Brownie rolls her eyes. "It'll be a waste of time, but sure, as long as we can move on."

"Very good," says Matilda, slamming her hands on the table and standing up. "Then, you two help me pack my things. We will find an inn and take care of this once and for all!"

"An Inn…?" asks Brownie, glancing over toward Baker.

"Whatever for?" asks Baker, catching Brownie's first glance.

The Maid dips past them, placing a hand on her lip and spinning around toward them again. "Oh, it's simple. "We're going to do an exercise."

Brownie rubs her temple. "What could we do at an inn to help us 'understand' each other?"

Baker leans back, draping one arm over the back of his chair. "Yes, I do not see the goal here."

"Oh, it's simple," says Matilda. “You two are going to shut up about your differences and fuck me until I can’t think straight!"

There are many inns all around the City of Anteronia. Tourism is a bustling industry, and the need for temporary lodgings for other activities makes renting rooms a lucrative business for most giant corporations and the smallest of mom-and-pop establishments.

Outside of the Aristocratic District, a few such establishments allow people to experience a glimpse of the rich life at a fraction of the price.

Still, the room's presentation is rather ostentatious, and Matilda travels around the luxurious bed, her fingers running over the satin sheet, trembling as she admires its delights.

"Yeah, it's good," says Brownie, snorting. She pokes a chair with her toe. "But is it really practical for such an examination?"

"What's the matter, Darling?" says Baker, fluttering his eye and stepping forward to the bed, sitting on the other side. "I thought you offered any service to your customers?" He kicks off his shoes and scoots forward, stroking Matilda’s cheek and leaning into her, pressing his lips to hers.

Matilda sighs, draping her hands over his shoulders, their lips smacking.

Brownie watches them, tapping her foot, scrunching her lips, shifting, and finally growling. She tosses off her toke and unbuttons her shirt, hopping up onto the bed herself, shoving Baker by the shoulder, and pulling Matilda. She falls on the bed and wraps her arms and legs around the judge.

She doesn't go for a simple peck but instead delves her tongue deep into the judge's mouth. Matilda moans, pressing her giant, milk-laden tits against the small A-cups of the bakery tomboy.

Baker puffs out his cheeks, unbuttoning his shirt and scooting around. He peppers kisses against Matilda, his hands slipping down, finding the ties of her uniform. "You probably shouldn't have stolen this from my friends, miss," he whispers. Such a bad girl you are."

Peeling off her garments, Baker is then able to stroke down along the small of her back, resting his hand upon her plush bottom, his mouth following up with kisses down that same path.

Matilda pulls free from the deep kisses. "S-so different," she sighs.

"Of course we're different!" Brownie scoffs. I'm the real deal, and he's the cheap imitation."

"There's nothing cheap about me," Baker says, rubbing the Maid's cheeks and granting her a slight slap.

Matilda lifts her hips away from Brownie and backs up against Baker.

Brownie responds by kissing Matilda’s collar, letting her tongue slip up and down along that delicate body.

Two professionals in their craft now bring their attention to this random nobody, fired from her job and left with only the residual milk from her previous employment. What is she to them but a means to an end? And yet, with each press and kiss, Matilda finds herself sinking deeper and deeper into the flow of delight.

"You're losing focus, darling," Baker coos into her ear. A finger slides down over her, passing over her star and tracing until it reaches her peach.

"Focus on ME!" Brownie says, latching her lips around one of the magically enchanted tits, her tongue lashing over the milky mammaries.

Baker's fingers delve into her with speed and precision, much like a machine built for her pleasure; he wiggles and curls and inserts, though unlike a machine, he listens to every coo and cough and sigh. He feels every twist, turn, and spasm and reacts, adjusting his actions. He speeds up, he slows down, he delves into one part in particular, he searches for the next spot to give her the most pleasure.

Brownie, meanwhile, owns Matilda’s hands and her mouth exploring all over her, leaving no moment untouched by her lips. Her acrobatics are incredible, spinning underneath her, not letting the contact between the two disappear.

Matilda joins in on the delights, her tongue pressing to Brownie's untouched muff, swirling, inserting, sighing, and slurping.

Baker's fingers battle it out with Brownie's tongue, each of them finding a place to play within the woman, fighting instead of sharing, turning the sex into a battleground of the human woman's approval.

Baker focuses on the task, though with all the coos and cries of his human companion, he bites his lip, closes his eyes, shakes his head, and breaks the silence. "Your technique is… so exciting, Brownie, darling!"

Brownie smirks from underneath Matilda, rocking her hips against the human’s face. Her fairy tongue finds the moment to strike with the coup de grace, flicking with the correct angle and intensity.

Matilda moans into the confectioner's cooch, collapsing into her and finally rolling off her, arms spread, staring up at the ceiling.

Baker sits on his knees on the bed, looking at his fingers, drenched in the woman's delight.

"Not bad…" Brownie's words snap his attention back toward her. She sits up, her petite body so athletic and well-maintained. "But then again," she continues, you're not the one who made her cum, are you?"

"No… I suppose not," Baker responds.

"So, judge?" Brownie asks, slapping Matilda’s thigh. What do you decide? The real deal is better than some machine, isn't it?"

The Maid coos, grabbing onto a pillow and burying her face, squealing.

"You know," Baker says, lying on his side on the bed. “This wasn't the best way to settle our dispute.”

Brownie snickers, thumbing her nose. "Of course, you'd think that—you lost!"

"And I accept that," He says. "Perhaps it is depression that holds me, or perhaps I simply admire someone better at providing such a service to her customer." He scoots up and sits on the edge, hands on his knees, rolling his shoulders. "Truthfully speaking, if I have to change how my Bakery works, so be it. After all, that was merely a gimmick to fit in with the City of Sin. I shall be happy if I can still pursue my true passion."

Brownie rolls her lips and then scoots to sit next to him. "You don't have to act for me anymore. Go back to being how you are."

"I am how I am!" Baker snaps, turning toward her. "If you can't see that, then… then you are just a scoundrel!" He huffs and picks himself up.

"This isn't the last we shall speak, I'm sure," says Baker, "But enjoy your narrow victory. I have not yet begun fighting for my dignity and lifestyle."

A low, soft chuckle starts, but then it gets higher. Soon, Brownie claps her hand on her forehead. And then she pulls it off, her brown eyes glittering with a fire. "There we go—now THAT's who I think you are!"

Perturbed by Brownie's sudden change in demeanor, Baker folds his arms over his chest and crosses a leg over the other. "And just what exactly do you mean by that? Aside from an unthinking, uncaring machine, who exactly do you think I am?"

Brownie bites her lip, leaning back on the bed, their arbiter completely enjoying her own post-coital delight as the two bakers square off. "Oh, Nothing much, but just a single-focused self-indulgent thing, programmed entirely to do one thing and one thing only. If you leave now, you prove it."

His lips quiver, and he crawls up to her, narrowing his eyes. "What exactly are you hoping to accomplish by egging me on toward this single-minded focus?"

Brownie presses her toes to his chest as he approaches her, tilting her head. "I just want to see if I'm right, is all. I need to understand my enemy if I'm to overcome him."

"I have no desire to be your enemy."

She slinks her foot up, toes touching his lip. "Oh yeah? Then why do you keep coming back for more? Why do you keep talking to me?"

He grabs her by the ankle, narrowing his gaze. "I… don't know."

"I'm manipulating your parameters," she says, wiggling her toes.

He pulls her, making her slide closer to him, falling on the mattress, her arms above her head. He leans down over her, hair brushing over her cheek. "And if you push me so far, manipulate me so much, then what happens?"

"Then," she says, "You realize you have no free will and will lose this battle sooner or later. You've got a short menu, Baker. You couldn't leave the sexy life if you wanted to." She says, parting her lips slightly. "No matter what you try, you can't deny yourself that you were made to be your mistress's fuck puppet, and no matter what you say you like about yourself, that's all you'll ever be."

He frowns, his lips so close to hers, but he doesn't say anything. The thought races through him, considering all his life choices ever since he had that very first idea to strike out on his own and disobey his original mistress, his owner. He smacks his lips and says, in a weak voice. "She's dead."

"But she'll never leave you—not really."

He grabs Brownie by the back of her head, pressing his forehead to hers. "Know this, darling," he says, in a gruffer voice than he ever put on before passing to her, "I am my own man, and I will show you I am more than capable of making my own decisions. I'll make you see."

"More than I make you see right now?" she says, slipping her knee up between his legs, pressing against his candy cock.

He winces.

Her eyes sparkle as she rubs her thigh against that length. "You see, Baker? You're all about giving others what they want, even if that's giving me a good rival."

Baker bites his lip, scanning her momentarily before lowering his lips toward hers.

Brownie presses her body up against his, the lips mingling together in a wild dance of delight before pulling back, saliva and syrup stringing together.

"I hate you…" Baker huffs.

"Good," responds Brownie before the two return to their kiss.

She pushes against him, rolling the two to the side, where arms and legs intermingle and entwine, hands through hair, legs against legs, filling the room with their sighs and their moans.

Meanwhile, their arbiter picks herself up, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She blinks and rubs them again, shaking her head when she finally gets through the blur. "So, I take it the two of you have agreed?"

Brownie pulls Baker free from her face, huffing and gulping for air. "Fuck no!" she growls, gripping her fingers into his shoulders. "I've not yet begun to, aah!"

Baker slips up to her neck and pecks her skin with little kisses before he growls into her ear. "Oh, but if you get rid of that frivolous lawsuit, we can settle our disputes in other arenas."

She murmurs, swirling a finger through his cotton hair. "You know what? That just might be fun. You've got yourself a deal. From now on… we settle our differences together!"

"Mmm… I look forward to humiliating you, Darling…" Baker coos.

—

Early in the morning, Libi removes loaves of bread from the oven and replaces them. She yawns and double-checks the schedule, grumbling at the others' lack of help, but they aren't scheduled… Baker is.

The night shift had put the Mannequin back in the kitchen, and it stands there, a monument to their boss’s silence.

Libi shuffles past the old mannequin, and just as she resigns herself to continue with her work, the thing shudders to life.

"Where the hell were you?" Libi asks.

Baker wipes the nonexistent sweat from his brow and glances over the room. "Oh, Libi. I'm glad you're here. You wouldn't believe the day I had!"

"You going to tell me all about it?" Inquires the employee.

"Oh, ho ho, Darling, no," he pats her on the head and adjusts his toque. "We have so much more work to do before the rest of the crew shows up."

"All of the crew?"

"Oh, yes," says Baker, picking up the schedule sheet and flipping through it. "After all, we have a big competition waiting."

"What? When? How long is it?"

With a chuckle, he raises the schedule again and huskily says, "Until one business is left standing."