Judge Me

by Abby Knox

  I study her face. So open, so vulnerable. This can’t be true.

  “If you’re a stand-up, how come you have no internet presence to speak of?”

  Her eyes light up. “You’ve been googling me!”

  “Yes.”

  “I perform under a fake name. The industry is crawling with creeps. Also, I’m astonishingly unsuccessful.”

  I don’t know the first thing about the working conditions of comedians anywhere, but the thought of anyone so much as looking at Chloe suggestively makes my head explode. I have to kiss her again to settle my raging blood pressure.

  Chloe’s full lips drown me in bliss. Yet I can’t help but recognize the fact that a perfect, innocent young thing like Chloe should be kissed by a good boy her own age. A respectful young man with a similarly sunny outlook who isn’t annoyed with the world at every turn. Someone who doesn’t want to possess her and keep her in his pocket. I shouldn’t be so gratified to know I’m the first one ever to kiss those lips, but I’m wickedly delighted to know I’m also the last. Because now that she’s here, I’m never letting her get away from me.

  I pull her in close to me and keep kissing her soft mouth while I tug the apron ribbon at the small of her back. She pulls away to chuck the apron off and immediately pulls me back down for more mouth-to-mouth.

  I can’t get enough. I want her. I want all of her—more of her vanilla and citrus scent in my lungs and her taste on my lips.

  I cinch her as close to me as two creatures can get, just as her juicy tongue teases my bottom lip.

  I’m absolutely doomed.

  But the moment I push past her lips and slide my tongue against hers, the elevator doors open, and a sharp voice echoes in the hallway. Chloe freezes as footsteps approach.

  “Phillip? There you are! We need to discuss that psychotic little tart—oh, excuse me!” My frame pivots to reveal to the director, Jamie, that the “psychotic little tart” is right there.

  “Watch yourself,” I say.

  Jamie tut-tuts at me. “Fraternizing? This is grounds for disqualification.” I open my mouth to set him straight, but Chloe beats me to it.

  She pushes off the wall of the elevator to face Jamie. “It sure is. You should do that. Disqualify me right away and make up a reason to explain why I’m gone. I would never want to tarnish the reputation of this esteemed program.”

  Jamie retracts his proverbial claws. “I just think it’s unseemly, and…and an unfair advantage.”

  Chloe chirps, “I’m a terrible baker, and I’m going to lose no matter what.”

  I can’t help but snort. “I hate to say it, but it’s true.”

  Jamie looks from Chloe to me and sees he’s not going to win this round. He stalks away, leaving me alone—finally—with my delicious little American biscuit. Or, cookie.

  “Now, where were we?”

  Chapter Seven

  Chloe

  * * *

  If the elevator were glass, the two of us would steam it up as we kiss and chat and make each other laugh like teenagers for who knows how long.

  Phillip is a perfect gentleman, dammit. I was all set to have my V-card punched in an elevator—how many people can say that?—but on the other hand, I am gratified to know I might be the first person ever to make the sexy Phillip Wildwood belly laugh.

  Alas, our little hookup in the elevator ends too soon, as it’s time to prepare for the nightly meeting with the director to brief us on tomorrow’s shoot.

  Phillip and I decide it’s best for the show if we don’t get caught in the middle of any more interludes like today.

  That night, after a quick production meeting about tomorrow’s Bread Day competition, some of the contestants invite me to join them in the village for a drink. I pass, as I’ve never been fond of alcohol. Also, I don’t want to answer any questions about my silly cookies or my obvious flirtation with Phillip.

  I do not doubt that gossip is already circulating.

  Instead, I go to my room, sit on the massive four-poster bed, and spend the next few hours texting with my mom and my closest sister Diana. Diana, twenty-one, is the wildest of the five of us and the least judgmental regarding my decisions.

  I tell my mom about everything except the kissing. She’s still very wary of the whole situation. To Diana, I spill all the beans. Diana’s been telling me her own naughty tales for ages, and now it’s my turn. There’s a whole lot of squeeing back and forth that night over the Atlantic Ocean.

  Eventually, I hear the other contestants arrive and go to their rooms. Everything is quiet after another hour or so, as we’ve all got to be awake early the next day.

  As for me, I lie awake and touch my fingertips to my lips. Could they still be a little swollen from the kissing? It could be wishful thinking that he’s left his mark on me. But I swear, I can still feel his masculine arms wrapped around me, holding me tight while his mouth ruins me. I can still feel him, taste him, smell him. See his sexy crow’s feet smile at me. I’m both floating in happiness and drowning in need for more.

  I close my eyes and wait for exhaustion to overtake me, but it never does.

  At least, I assume it won’t until I’m startled awake by a presence on my bed.

  “Virgin Mary on toast, what are you doing here!” I try not to scream and wake everyone up. Probably a hopeless cause, as everything echoes in this place.

  I hear a chuckle. “Getting to know my psychotic little tart better.”

  It’s Phillip, of course. “Are you crazy? This has to be against the rules.”

  “Fuck the rules; it’s my house.” Lord help me, why did hearing him say that make me wet?

  “Oh. My,” I say, my voice trembling.

  His thick, rough fingers brush the hair away from my ear. His breath warms me in private places nowhere near that spot as he whispers, “But we do have to be quiet, love.”

  I whisper in reply, “I don’t know if I can be quiet with you. I’m so excited I might squeal like a stuck pig.”

  He chuckles, then scolds me playfully. “Quite an image. Well, we can’t have that. I shall have to keep your mouth occupied.”

  Phillip kisses me again, but it’s different from earlier. Our first kisses were gentle, playful, and exciting. This kiss is a lover’s kiss, and it warms me everywhere. My cheeks heat, my heart pounds, and my sex trembles. His tongue plunges into my mouth, wrestling with mine as he pulls me on top of him on the bed.

  This is it, Chloe. This is what you came here to do.

  As we kiss with needy tongues, I slide my legs apart until my knees reach the mattress on either side of his hips. Phillip may be large in comparison to me, but he fits so comfortably between my legs. He groans into my mouth when I do what comes naturally: grind against that ever-lengthening steel rod pushing against my pelvis.

  “Slow down, darling; we’re not ready for that yet.”

  I whimper, “Yes, yes I am. Yes, we are.”

  “You’re going to have to trust me on that. There’s no other word for it, but I’ll have to, er, stretch you out first.”

  I nod, even though he can’t see it in the dark. “I know. It’s in books and…other things.”

  He hums in mock surprise. “Oh, dear. What naughty books has my future wife been reading?”

  When he says the phrase “my future wife,” it kicks up a hundred reactions in my body. The slick heat between my legs surely means I’m ready, no matter how big he thinks he is. “I prepared myself for…meeting you. I knew I would need to know how to…how to take you. And how to please you. I read things, and sometimes I watch porn. Studying my colleagues’ raunchy comedy doesn’t hurt either.”

  This elicits a low rumble in his chest as he grips my face. Even lying beneath me, he owns my body with his passionate kiss.

  “Good girl. And what sort do you watch?”

  I bite my lip, not having expected this interrogation. “Um, well, I don’t know. I like to watch lots of different things.”

  “And do you make
yourself come when you watch lots of different things?”

  I shake my head. “No. Never. Sometimes I’m so desperate it just happens. Sometimes in my sleep. But I never even touched myself. I wanted you to be the first.”

  His body stills under me; his hands paused on my back. I wonder if I’ve said too much. Am I genuinely sick for holding back so much just for this one man?

  The next thing I know, I’m under him, as easy as if he’s flipping a pancake. “Poppet,” he says, hissing in my ear, his hand cradling my neck. “You think far too highly of me.”

  There’s no way that’s possible. “You don’t think highly enough of yourself.”

  “If you only knew the things I need from you…”

  “I want to turn on the light so I can see you,” I whisper.

  “No,” he says sternly.

  The strictness in his voice makes me tremble with need and nervousness. I can’t help but release a giggle. “But you’re so cute; I want to look at your sweet face.”

  He growls and pulls his weight off of me, making me want to reach out to him and make him come back to me. “I am neither cute nor sweet.”

  I feel his weight shift on the mattress as he sits upright. What I would give for him to take me fully right now, make me his, make so much noise in this cavernous space.

  I sit up next to him and examine him in shadow. “Phillip Wildwood, I have been studying you for years. I can tell you with the certainty that you are gorgeous, and underneath that gruff exterior lies a sweet, mushy heart.”

  He grunts. “Don’t kid yourself. There’s no mush in here.”

  There’s a sound of his fist thumping his chest. I reach out and cover his hand with mine, then smooth my palm over the spot where his heart beats, pushing aside the lapels of his robe. “I feel it,” I say. “It beats in there.”

  “It beats for no one and nothing until you showed up in my garden last night.”

  “Tell me the truth, Phillip. Why am I here? Why did I make it through?”

  He shifts, pivoting toward me. “What do you mean?”

  Snortling, I say, “Come on. I’m a terrible baker. How did I get here?”

  “Bright smile and persistence, I would wager.”

  “Stop it,” I say. “Tell me the truth, or I’ll kick you out of this bed.” Good lord, I do not want to kick this man out of bed.

  He heaves a heavy sigh, and then the truth comes out. “I saw your audition video. I wanted to meet you. I made sure you got through. I told them it didn’t matter what was on your audition tape; we needed you on the show.”

  My hand still on his chest, Phillip circles my forearm with one beefy hand. I worry for a second he’s going to push me away, but instead, he hoists me onto his lap sideways, like Santa Claus. He holds me in his big bear arms, safe and secure, his warmth radiating into me. I don’t know how long we sit there like that, snuggled up in a mountain of luxurious pillows, kissing, petting, and talking, but I can say unequivocally it’s the best night of my life.

  We kiss so much that I know now for sure I’ll discover a bruised lip in the morning. Our hands explore as much as can be explored without taking off our clothes. For the first time, I feel a man’s erection pressing against me. With my consent, anyway. I’m fascinated and aroused as I feel it grow longer, thicker, and stiffer every time I touch him over his pajama bottoms, but amazingly—and frustratingly—he refuses to let it go any further that night.

  “Phillip,” I whine. “Please. I want you to rip my PJs off and stuff me like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

  He laughs, then hums and helps himself to a handful of my breast, stroking my nipple into a stiff peak through my pajama top. “I prefer a Christmas goose to a Thanksgiving turkey, love. Better yet, think of me as the filling to your cream horn. But not tonight. I want your first time to be special. Just be patient, a little bit longer.”

  Chapter Eight

  Phillip

  * * *

  These people look like they’ve seen a ghost.

  But it’s just me. I’m the specter of expert bread baking, and today is Bread Day.

  None of these contestants had better deliver anything less than perfection, or it’s going to be destruction come judgment time.

  Except for Chloe. By her own admission, she’s going to fail this round with flying colors. I have an entire particular type of judgment waiting for her, and only her.

  But that will have to wait until tomorrow, after Cake Day.

  I do the maths in my head, and that’s thirty hours away. Good god, how will I last that long?

  What was I thinking, going to her room last night?

  And now my willy threatens to destroy my trousers if I don’t set it free.

  I explain the rules: each baker must produce a 3-D work of art with their bread. Chloe, of course, is the only one jumping up and down with excitement at her workstation.

  Today, she wears a frilly pinstripe apron, and her hair is twisted up into two buns, fastened with sparkly barrettes. Her crop top, paired with an extra-short plaid skirt, makes her appear much younger than she is. She’s aiming for schoolgirl bombshell, just to twist the knife in my side. She’s mocking me over my concerns about our age difference. While she works, I see the softness of her hips just out over the top of her waistband. I want so badly to grab onto that cushion, bend her over her workstation and take her from behind, I have to bite my tongue. Firmly. I’m equal parts frustrated and annoyed. If she wants to torture a caged man, she’s doing it exactly right.

  I have to take a walk to cool off. I might have to jump in the lake.

  “Phillip!” the director calls after me, and I know why. I’m supposed to be available to provide “talking head” footage about the contest and what I’m expecting. There’s loads of time for that after I get some relief.

  I stand in the shower for the second time this morning, gritting my teeth, my eyes rolling back in my head, as I grip my cock with thoughts of her. She’s done it now. The image of her in that outfit and her silly space buns has done me in. She knows full well what she’s doing. When she bent over to turn on her oven, legs spread wide for my benefit, I could see the entire crotch of her wet knickers.

  Finishing alone in the shower feels like anything but finished. I’m not satisfied, and I won’t be until that pretty little petal is riding my cock. Until I’m filling her up with my cum.

  I asked her to be a good girl today, and look what she’s done to me.

  I’ve yanked myself to completion, and I’m still frustrated. All I see is those soft, pouty lips. I can still feel them. My body remembers Chloe’s every soft curve and valley pressed against me.

  Pull yourself together, man. You promised her that her first night would be special, and it damn well better be. Now get back on the set and do what you do.

  I have to do three takes with the director before he’s satisfied with my talking head segment. Happily, I remember why I’m here. The remaining hours of watching the contestants make bread turns out to be fun. This is what I am all about, after all.

  Soon, the aroma of fresh baking bread fills the ballroom, and I’m in my element, being extra careful to avoid any physical contact with Chloe. Every time I come near her, her spark threatens to give us away.

  Titters from the other side of the ballroom draw my attention to her, despite my efforts. I glance over and see two of the contestants gathering around her, giggling about something. I desperately want to know, but then again, maybe I don’t. The one male contestant looks like he’s hovering a little too close to Chloe for my comfort. Before I can stop myself, I eat up the distance and stand with my shoulder between him and Chloe.

  With my most professional tone, I tell him, “So glad everyone seems to be finished with their breads. Have you tidied your stations?”

  He casts me a guilty look and gets to work cleaning the layer of flour from his countertops.

  Chloe whispers behind me, “Was that necessary?”

  Over my shoulder, I quie
tly reply, “It is if I’m going to keep you in line.”

  Chloe slides in close, reaching between my arm and torso, and drops a utensil into the sink. Her breath warms the side of my neck as she whispers, “Yes, Daddy.”

  Oh boy, is she going to get it.

  Chapter Nine

  Chloe

  * * *

  “What is…that?”

  It’s judging time, and Phillip looks incredulous at my creation.

  “I think it’s obvious.”

  Phillip and Georgianne are agape at the thirteen-inch baguette protruding straight up in the air from a base of two large buns.

  “Really?” Phillip asks me.

  Georgianne cocks her head to the side. “I don’t get it. Is it abstract? An upside-down tree or something?”

  “It’s my best guess at Phillip’s penis, ma’am.”

  I’m blushing beet red despite my brazenness. Phillip looks like he might blow a gasket.

  “Your…best guess,” he says, blue irises darkening. I lick my lips and stare right back at him.

  Best guess, my foot. I know exactly how big it is, and I’ve thoroughly considered every ridge from my study of it in the dark.

  “Yes, sir.”

  His nostrils flare. His brows knit together. Oh, I’ve done it now. Phillip is furious. And I’m shaking in anticipation of what he might do.

  Thank god, I’m the final entry; he’s already tasted the others. “Let’s have it, then.”

  He winces as his co-host gingerly slices through the base and hands him a slice.

  I offer, “Perhaps you want to just try the tip first?”

  The other contestants cackle, unable to hold back anymore.

  Georgianne seems unaffected, which kind of makes me like her more.

  I hardly care what anyone thinks except for Phillip. I wanted to see if I could get a rise out of him. Judging by the red flush above his fussy, buttoned-down collar and the tent in his trousers, I’d say I succeeded.