Bread and Jam

Short story | Transgressive erotica

Photo by Mario Mesaglio on Unsplash

As I sit here, the light is fading, mirroring my own light on the brink of being extinguished. It is still possible that I’ll evade discovery, but my chances are waning.

Looking back, the whole story seems inconceivable. I can barely conceive of it myself, although I was fully present and responsible for its creation.

I lift the dough out of the bread machine and throw it down onto the floured countertop, it makes a delicious soft pillowy thud. I knock it back and prepare its shape for baking. This one will be a round boule, rather than a tin loaf. A shape matching the taste and texture is always desirable.

This one a deep brown granary loaf, made with a mix of wholewheat and seeded flours, malted wheat grains, and a small amount of oats thrown in to give a little more bite and flavour, then sweetened with malt and treacle, rather than honey, for colour and richness. I’m salivating as I prepare it. Also remembering the day I baked a similar loaf for you.

Making bread is a robust and burly activity, like that of a builder. It’s not cupcakes after all, sweet and airily whipped up into light sugary clouds. It’s an engineered creation. The magic of yeast rising, holding air within its glutenous bubbles, to form something solid, wholesome and nourishing. Real food to be cut or torn, food to be chewed and shared communally. Chunks for mopping up gravy or thick-sliced and slathered with butter and jam.

Kneading and knocking back are not fey, delicate activities for the faint-wristed or faint-hearted; they require muscle and determination, especially in larger batches. I no longer make several loaves at a time, but there was a time… Ah yes, a time when my upper arm muscles could be mistaken for a gym enthusiast. But that is another story, from another time.

For now, let’s stay right here, in my cramped kitchen, with only one usable countertop, to wield and transform this springy, heavy dough, which inherently desires to rise up and lighten, to become edible and nutritious. All bread doughs do; I know this, if nothing else. Something else I know, though, is this story.

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There’s your voice on the phone. Turning my insides out, luscious and naughty, with such a mild Irish brogue, almost indiscernible, but it counts. There’s almost a song in that voice. You’ve raised the heat, the voice is sweet, and deeper than I expected, stinging with undercurrents of innuendo and teasing, like the thrill of being tickled by a nettle leaf and the delicious itch it causes.

It’s deliberate, you’ve been working on this for some time. Becoming a master of the art of flirting and winning around almost anyone. The shield I hold up to protect myself melts into a warm, rich puddle of desire, without me even noticing, until there I am, like an ant caught in dripping honey, of my own making. I let this happen. It will not happen again, I profess uncertainly.

You are now the one desiring, pushing me gently towards meeting. It’d take a lot this time, because my fingers got burnt last time and the time before. You turned the tables and now I’m wary. But the bread is rising and that levity raises my desire. I want to make promises to bring bread and jam and eat them messily in your huge bed. I hold back. I still don’t trust you. At all!

And so, I wait. The dough rises and is now ready to bake. My desire follows; I’m ready too. My resistance settles back, like a plump grandmother in a comfy rocking chair, and watches on as I respond almost feverishly, as I say yes. My resistance does not approve, but is too tired now, having been holding steady for so long. She eases back and rocks gently… Let occur whatever will be…

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So here we are, at the pub. You, dressed smart casual, relaxed and grinning like an imp when you see me arrive. A sneaky leprechaun, perhaps? And me carrying myself cautiously, while also carrying the fresh bread and a jar of blackcurrant jam, made from fruit in my garden. But you know that; we had that conversation right near the start.

You lick your lips and I’m not sure if that’s for me, or the food. Either way, it’s enticing and means you want what I have. I’m aroused beyond where I thought this would go. Surprised, I giggle and blush. You notice and smile — a devilish smile that I can’t be sure is benign.

We agree to a drink. Then another. You pay. Traditional that way. I’m relieved as I realise I forgot my wallet. It’s too easy these days, memory getting worn at the seams. I’m intending to drive home, so remain sober. You’re on Irish whisky, me on cola. I’d prefer water but that seems a ridiculous thing to request in the situation.

Then we walk to your place, unrushed. Your hand on my back, making moves already, occasionally sliding down to my bottom, then when met with no argument, getting bolder and slipping under my jeans’ waist, anticipating, I sense, a refusal. But I say nothing. I like it. It shows the kind of intention I came for.

I walked into this with my eyes open and willing. So outrageous for a woman to admit she wants sex, and not a relationship. For an older woman to seek out a much younger man for such activities. Fear tells me to expect disrespect, but I’m hopeful you’re an enlightened being who seeks equality, in sexual and related behaviours. I hold judgement on that for now, but allow your hand to make its cheeky propositions and allow my body to respond.

We are, you assure me, but a few minutes away now. You’ve invited me to your ‘apartment’. I’m expecting open plan and contemporary neutrals, but as we arrive, I see it’s basically a rented bedsit, with a curtained-off bed.

I’m slightly alarmed by your fake bragging and almost wish I’d not brought the jam. It seems out of place now, from a different story, one where ‘he’ has quarters that fit his demeanour and vice versa. This is, I think, almost slumming it. I consider walking out.

But the hand touching my bottom, even lightly flirting with my anus, has me wet now and I don’t want to leave without what I came for. So I stay, perhaps unwisely. Red flags, they call them. And now there are a few.

Your idea of dominance is to push me around, through the galley kitchen, against the cabinets, turning me this way and that, and onto the bed, to touch and kiss where your desire leads you, with no accounting for what I want. I’m thrilled and disgusted all at once.

I’m on the bed, still mostly dressed, still holding the bread. You have no interest in it, now… or maybe not ever. I feel small, insignificant and objectified. This is not about me. Yet my body responds. Traitor!

Before you unbuckle your belt, your tongue and your fingers have been inside me, making me wet. My underwear is torn and soaked, my jeans around my knees. I’m not embarrassed by such things, but my demoralised mind is in conflict with the panting, dripping, eager body that’s crying out to be entered and satisfied.

Then you stop. Out of nowhere. Just stop, as though caught by a whole other thought process. I sit up and look, trying to form the word ‘why?’

I see blood. A lot of blood. On the bedcover, oozing slowly onto the cheap laminate flooring. My practical self is already thinking about the difficulty of cleaning blood off pale beech, not to mention light grey polycotton sheets.

That’s when I notice the bread knife. In my hand. It’s not cutting bread. It’s also red with blood. With your blood. Then I’m entranced by the edge of your mouth extending to your ear. Like a huge Joker smile, but this isn’t funny and it’s not face paint.

I look down and am surprised that the knife has half dismembered your penis. It’s hanging off you at a strange angle. Certainly no longer erect. And no precum, only gushing blood. I finish the job of its decapitation. It’s tidier, I think, than leaving it neither attached nor detached. I prefer things to be tidy.

I can’t parse what’s happened. I’m hungry now and want bread, but the knife is bloody and your face is caught between anger, pain and confusion. You’re lying down and I hear screaming coming from your bloody mouth, but it feels a long way away. It’s very annoying though.

I’m not only hungry, but still horny. Why are you not doing the job I came here for? Did I really drive all this way, with clean underwear and a toothbrush, not to mention the bread and jam, for this massacre? I don’t think that’s what I intended to do.

But maybe I did. You were after all, a bit of a twat. Well, let’s be straight, you were a total fucking dick. You deserved this bloody end, I now realise.

But I cannot be implicated, nor found out. I’ve come too far. And you have to stop that awful wailing noise. I shove the corner end of the duvet into your mouth, feeding it in until you gag and the noise abates. I wait to hear if anyone comes, but it’s Friday night and people are being reckless and noisy outside, screaming with laughter or drunkenness. Your howl simply blends in with the usual nightlife cacophony.

I’m in luck. It’s not always so easy to cover up. I go into the kitchen, ravenous now, and find you too have a bread knife, clean and bloodless in your utensils drawer. That’ll do. I cut a thick raggedy slice. Find butter in your fridge. I love that you keep your butter in the fridge. Also a delicate, antique bone-handled butter knife with a soft edge, sitting on the counter. It fits my hand so well, I’d love to pocket it, but think better of it. I do enjoy using it though. The best — cold butter on fresh bread, with a generous dollop of jam on top.

I bite down, getting rich red mess on my face. A prettier colour than the blood red on yours, already darkening as it dries. I smile, gratified that I got the better colour.

I should probably leave soon. Probably should take your bread knife with me. Seems a fair swap, as I’m leaving mine, the one with the wooden handle, with no prints. My hands were wet and slimy with sexual juices, only from you. Besides my DNA is not on any police database. Yet. Seems fitting to leave it. Would be messy to remove it now. Anyway, I think I like the idea of the knife becoming my calling card. I wonder what nickname I’ll be given… ‘The Bread Knife Butcher’ has a nice ring to it.

Before I go, I see you’re still spluttering and flailing around a little. We can’t have that. It takes some effort to push you up onto the bed, but that’s so I can sit on your face. A lot of men like that. And right now, I need it. You’ve not satisfied me at all. If you were the woman and I was the man, I’d be within my rights to call you a cock-tease. Actually, you’re more of a cockroach. Good job I didn’t bring nuclear armoury. They can survive that, I’ve heard.

I push myself into your face, riding you, with your bloody mouth and lolling tongue. Almost expired, but still I’ll get the last bit of life out of you. Oh yes, that’s getting me where I want to go. I’m almost sad now, that I didn’t let you do this before I did what I had to do. I think that might have been the first thing you said. What you wanted to do to me… not for me… not with me.

Oh, wow! That irritating thought has the desired, ramping-up effect. I climax. It’s a good one. Very satisfying. “Thank you,” I say into your one still-attached ear. I give you a kiss on your cold, sweaty forehead. I think you’ve lost consciousness now; at least, you don’t reply. I shan’t bother to check for a pulse.

It’s been ‘interesting’, as they say, and I’m not angry. Not about the assumptions you made, not about the rights to my body you thought you had, because I’d driven so far to meet you, because you bought me a couple of drinks. Surely that’s what I wanted. Well, maybe… well, yes, actually, to be honest, but not without my payment.

I look askance at the mess we’ve made. But sex is messy, isn’t it? When it’s good. Maybe you also said that…? This was quite good, in the end. I pick up your wilted, bloody penis from the edge of the bed. I give it a friendly, Shakespearian squeeze and cache the limp flesh, not quite a pound, in my bag, next to the jam jar, hoping the latter won’t leak on the journey home.

I don’t bother to wipe my face or anywhere else. I’ll enjoy licking the jam as a final delicacy on the way home. The gooey mess between my thighs feels nice as I walk back to my car.

I drive, squirming occasionally, to continue the experience, and in memoriam. I’m listening to some great Irish rock music. I think you recommended one of those bands. Thank you.

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Thank you for reading!