by JL Merrow
Trolling for Cupcakes
By JL Merrow
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2019 JL Merrow
ISBN 9781646560875
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Trolling for Cupcakes
By JL Merrow
Billie read the sign. Twice. Then another time for good measure.
Each time, it said “Privit. Futparth Cloesd. No Trespisers. That Meens Yuo.” Not a very friendly message, Billie thought. Distinctly unwelcoming, in fact.
And annoyingly inconvenient. She’d been using this short-cut through the copse for months now. It was the quickest way from her house to Pixies’ Cupcakery by about half a mile. If she went the long way around, she’d probably end up using more calories than she gained from her mid-morning treat, and that didn’t seem very cost-effective. She folded her suntanned arms and stood there, tapping one sandal-clad foot and scowling at the sign. Annoyingly, it didn’t take fright and scurry away into the trees.
Then again, neither did it turn into a rabid Rottweiler and start snapping at her slender ankles. While neither outcome would have been very likely, one did read about all sorts of odd things happening in the Mirkwood Gazette.
Hmm.
It was quite likely, Billie mused, that the path had been closed for a reason. Perhaps some local teenagers had been getting in and leaving litter, or starting fires, or holding naked sabbats, that sort of thing? So they’d closed the footpath to stop that happening. Now, Billie knew she wasn’t going to be starting any fires. Or leaving litter, or picking bluebells—partly because it was July and the bluebells were long gone, yes, but mostly because she just wouldn’t do things like that. She was a firm believer that wild flowers should be enjoyed where they grew, and left in peace for others to do likewise. As for naked sabbats…no, she really wasn’t into those. Quite apart from the whole unleashing-the-demonic-forces-of-hell thing, going sky-clad in the woods could lead to midge bites in some very uncomfortable places.
So technically, really, the sign didn’t apply to her. Only to hypothetical teenage litterbugs and arsonists-cum-nudists.
Giving a satisfied nod—that was proper, grown-up logic, that was—Billie tossed her golden curls and ducked through the newly-built fence, making sure to hold the thin cotton of her sundress away from any rogue splinters. She set off down the path, whistling a little as she walked through the trees—only a very little, mind, because she’d never quite got the hang of it, and she had a strong suspicion any birds within earshot might be sorely tempted to alight on a nearby branch and laugh themselves silly at her efforts.
It was cool here in the copse, the dappled shade teasing her eyes with a natural strobe effect, making her feel as if she walked through some eerily silent sylvan nightclub. The ground was soft beneath her sandals, the baking sun never reaching so far through the trees, and twigs and fallen leaves crackled at her pink-nailed toes. Billie breathed in the rich, earthy scent of the woods and smiled as pollen tickled her nostrils.
Coming to a footbridge across a stream whose clear waters crept shyly over pebbles and tree roots, she placed one confident, well-pedicured foot on the narrow plank.
Which was when it all went just a tiny bit pear-shaped.
Because even as the last echoes of her gentle footstep shivered among the leaves, up from nowhere jumped the largest woman Billie had ever seen. This stranger could have played Madame Maxime in the Harry Potter films with no CGI whatsoever. The top of her wild raven curls brushed the treetops, which must have confused the squirrels no end, and her waist was level with Billie’s head. Breasts as large as boulders swelled the contours of a plaid shirt that could have kept an entire Highland clan in kilts. To call her statuesque was to overlook the fact that statues, on the whole, would pale into lichen-clad insignificance beside this behemoth of the brook.
She was, all in all, a rather larger woman than one might have expected to be able to conceal herself under a very modest footbridge. Billie strongly suspected there was magic afoot. And very probably both ahead and a-body as well.
Fire flashed from the troll-woman’s eyes (not literally; that would have been hazardous in a forest in summer) and fists the size of footballs rested on denim-clad hips a Shire horse would have been proud to own. If, that was, said Shire horse was in the habit of wearing rather fetchingly fitted straight-cut jeans, which admittedly very few of them were.
“OI!” the mountainous maiden shouted in a voice that, although not precisely discordant in tone, had more of Wagner in it than of Mozart. “What part of ‘private’ did you not understand, Tinkerbell?”
Although far from offended at the comparison to a fairy, Billie couldn’t help suspecting any flattery was unintentional. She considered her options. It took a worryingly short time. “Um, sorry?” she said, trying to keep her tone calm and soothing. “Tell you what, I’ll just nip across here and I’ll be on my way, how about that?” She smiled sweetly in the manner a former girlfriend had told her was utterly irresistible.
Too late, Billie recalled said former girlfriend’s penchant for twisting the truth until it resembled a large, overgrown, and possibly magically enhanced patch of bindweed. The sizeable scowl directed at her now softened not one iota.
“In your dreams, Twinkletoes. You’ve trespassed on my bridge, and now you’re going to pay.”
Seeing that conciliation had failed, Billie felt it behoved her to give assertiveness a try. “Your bridge? Since when?” After all, this hadn’t used to be a trollbridge. The last time Billie had passed this way had been only a day or so ago, and trolls, ogres, sasquatches, and other such dwellers of the sylvan depths had been conspicuous by their absence. Billie would almost certainly have noticed, had one been there, demanding money—or other tribute—with menaces. And if ex-girlfriends could lie, why not alarmingly large strangers with arrestingly ample bosoms?
“Since yesterday. Bought and paid for, and signed on the dotted line.” The angry Amazon held up an official-looking document, which did indeed have an inordinately large X scrawled just above the red wax seal at the bottom.
Billie cocked her golden-tressed head on one side, her hands on her hips spreading warmth through the thin cotton of her sundress, and pursed her lips as she thought about this.
The giantess of the glade frowned. “You can stop doing that and all. It’s distracting.”
“Sorry.” Billie clasped her hands demurely in front of her and smiled brightly. “Well, how about this? I’m not totally opposed to the idea of paying a reasonable toll for passage through your
property. I’m sure it won’t cost an arm and a leg.”
Too late, she realised the narrative trap into which she had fallen.
“An arm and a leg?” The leviathan laughed, and birds fluttered off in fright at the booming sound. “You’ll be lucky. I’ve eaten sparrows with more meat on them than you. I’m going to need more than a couple of spindly limbs for my dinner.” As if to emphasise her point, her titanic tummy rumbled with the thunder of a storm that wasn’t quite as distant as one might have preferred it to be.
This conversation, Billie thought, was drifting into waters rather deeper and murkier than the crystal-clear brook she still hoped to cross, although admittedly that hope was receding with alarming rapidity. “Excuse me, but would I be right in thinking your idea of a fair toll is to eat me?” Her face twisted into a grimace of its own accord, not that she would have stopped it if she could. “Ew. Raw human. Isn’t that, well, kind of gross?”
The Brobdingnagian bridge-keeper appeared a little less poised than she had a moment ago. And was it Billie’s imagination, or was she getting…smaller?
“It’s traditional,” the once-mammoth woman muttered, her tones no longer ringing with certainty. And was that just a trace of a shift in pitch, as if vocal chords were shrinking, a windpipe shortening, and various other physical changes affecting her voice in apparent defiance of all magic?
Billie seized upon her companion’s hesitancy. “Well, so’s burning witches and dying in childbirth, but I think most people would agree there’s a lot to be said for moving with the times….” At that point, Billie’s train of thought derailed, although she was at a loss to account for it.
Undoubtedly, it had nothing whatsoever to do with the still impressively-sized plaid-covered bosom now heaving conveniently at Billie’s eye-level.
“But I’m hungry,” the woman said plaintively, and shrank a little further. She let out a zephyr-like sigh, and at the bobbing of her breasts this caused, Billie’s logical locomotive left the tracks altogether and plunged, still steaming, into a canyon.
Fortunately, the resultant carnage and loss of imaginary life was enough to wrest Billie’s thoughts back in line.
“Ninety-five percent of vegetarians have a significantly healthier lifestyle than people who eat meat,” she said with mendacious confidence, having made the statistic up on the spot. Then she remembered her errand. “Although the occasional treat has its place in a balanced diet. Have you ever considered cupcakes as an alternative to cannibalism?”
“Cupcakes?” The eyes of the condensed colossus narrowed. “Are they made from actual cups?”
Billie laughed. “No, silly! The ones at Pixies’ Cupcakery are made from sugar, cream, eggs, and flour—and a little bit of magic, I believe, although the pixies themselves don’t admit to it in the list of ingredients. The dispute with the Food Standards Agency is still ongoing, from what I hear. Anyway, they’re officially certified as lighter than a fairy’s wing, and the taste has made many a hummingbird swear off nectar for life. They have affidavits on the walls. I’m Billie, by the way,” she added, crossing her fingers that a natural reluctance to eat someone to whom one had been introduced would prove to be universal.
“Granita,” said her by now significantly compacted companion, with a look that dared Billie to mock. Her face, Billie was gratified to notice, was significantly less stone-like sans scowl. Indeed, there was something about the contrast between her strong jawline and her hesitant manner that was rather appealing.
“I do like unusual names,” Billie said with rather more tact than truth, at least in this particular case. Billie had had a few girlfriends in her time, but not one whom she’d have been comfortable calling ‘Gran’ for short. “But it’s a bit of a mouthful. Can I call you Nita?”
“Um, all right,” said Nita. Her eyes, which had the brilliant green hue of chromium in beryl, were now on a level only an inch or two higher than Billie’s, and appeared inclined to stay at that height. On the whole, Billie thought this much nicer—true, Nita’s breasts were no longer the size of boulders, but then again, Billie was a practical girl who had always found much merit in the old adage, ‘more than a handful’s a waste.’
“Is that what you’re after, then?” Nita continued, with an encouraging lift to her voice. “Cupcakes?”
Billie nodded. “Of course. So may I be on my way?” she asked hopefully.
“Well…” Nita’s emerald eyes clouded. “I don’t make the rules, see. There’s gotta be a toll, or you can’t pass.”
“I could bring you back a cupcake?” Billie suggested. “Or half a dozen, even,” she amended, considering her companion might at any moment revert to her former herculean dimensions.
“Gotta be a toll first,” Nita countered, with a trace of her former steel.
Billie considered for a moment, then very deliberately put her hands on her hips, cocked her head so far to one side it was in serious danger of falling off, and pursed her lips as provocatively as she knew how, which was very provocatively indeed. “How about a kiss?”
A ruby hue spread across Nita’s cheeks, and she hung her head. “You don’t wanna kiss me.”
Billie frowned, which she had been told she did rather prettily, and stamped one rosy-toed foot. “I think I’ll be the judge of whom I’d like to kiss, if you don’t mind.” The thought of kissing Nita had flitted in an instant from expediency to urgency. In fact it was exerting such a powerful draw upon her that Billie felt as if she could give up cupcakes for the rest of her life—or at least, say, until next Thursday—if only she might press her lips against Nita’s just once.
Well, perhaps not just once. Perhaps a number of times, with regular reassessments of the desirable quantity.
Nita picked with a doubtful air at the hem of her plaid shirt—which thankfully had shrunk with its owner, or she would by now most likely have disappeared entirely in its tartan embrace. “Don’t really know how to kiss,” she admitted.
Billie smiled, this time with less regard for how it might look than for the number of sprites that appeared to be dancing in her stomach. “Don’t worry. I’m very good at teaching.” Bravely, she stepped forward until she and Nita were a mere fairy’s wingspan apart. Then, rising upon her tiptoes, and cupping Nita’s face in both her hands, Billie applied her lips in what she hoped would prove to be an educational fashion.
Nita’s lips were softer than they looked, and less hesitant than Billie had feared. Her breath was sweet as tree blossom, and Billie began to suspect that Nita’s earlier talk of eating sparrows—not to mention trespassers—had been all bluster. Now, Billie was a firm believer in taking people as they come and extending the hand of forgiveness toward any odd little peccadilloes such as, say, eating people (although perhaps not, in the case of cannibalism, extending a literal hand), but this was nonetheless reassuring.
After the first, brief brush of their lips, Billie sank back onto her heels with a smile. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Nita’s brow furrowed, and her eyes developed something of the roaming habits of deer foraging for acorns. “Not sure I got it right,” she said with a faux-casual air that would have failed to fool someone far less astute than Billie. “Maybe you could show me again?”
“With pleasure,” Billie replied truthfully. Once again, she stood up on tiptoes, but this time, she slung one arm low around Nita’s waist so that it just rested on her ample hips and with the other hand, cupped Nita’s strong, smooth jaw. Nita’s pulse beat beneath her fingertips like a hummingbird’s wings as Billie pressed their lips together, and muscles flexed under Nita’s skin as the kiss deepened. Billie shivered deep in her core, and if Nita’s moan and the way she pressed their bodies together was any guide, she was just as affected.
When they parted, breathless, an idea flitted into Billie’s mind. “There. I think that’s this morning’s toll accounted for.”
Nita’s face fell. “S’pose so.”
“Then again,” Billie continued th
oughtfully, “I will need to come back this way later. Perhaps I’d better pay you in advance for that, too.”
Nita looked markedly happier.
“And,” Billie went on, “to be honest, I need to come this way all the time. You really wouldn’t believe how many routes this bridge happens to be slap bang in the middle of.” She decided not to mention just how solidly grounded any lack of credulity on Nita’s part would be. “So maybe we should come to some arrangement?”
Nita was nodding eagerly. “Like a season ticket?”
“Exactly!” Billie beamed. “Now, let me see…I come this way, shall we say, about five days a week? So with return trips, that’s ten times a week, with probably, oh, four weeks of the year when I’m away on holiday. Plus, of course, any days I’m ill, but then that’s probably countered by special occasions, such as friends’ birthdays…”
Nita, who had begun to count on her surprisingly graceful fingers, was beginning to look as though she wished she had a lot more limbs.
“…anyway, it’s a lot of kisses,” Billie concluded. “Perhaps, in the interest of not getting chapped lips, we could explore some other kind of currency?”
“Like what?” Nita asked.
“Well, maybe like this?” Billie traced her fingers down Nita’s throat and over the contours of one plaid-covered breast. Far from making any objection, Nita drew in a deep, shuddering breath and placed her hand over Billie’s to press it more firmly to her breast, the nipple of which was now noticeably peaked.
Billie was somewhat relieved; she feared there was probably no polite way to ask a girl named Granita if she might happen to be stone.
“I like that,” Nita said, as if confirmation were needed, her voice a low rumble like thunder over distant mountains.
“Good,” said Billie. She smiled coquettishly, looking up at Nita through her eyelashes. “I think I’d like to undo your shirt, now. If that’s all right with you.”
Nita nodded feverishly and Billie took the tacit permission. The buttons of Nita’s shirt sprang eagerly from their holes, laying bare the beautiful breasts that nestled, unencumbered by lingerie, beneath the plaid. Billie felt a sudden urge to fan herself. Nita’s creamy white skin was like the icing upon a pair of Belgian buns, and her nipples the delectable glacé cherries on top. Billie’s mouth watered in anticipation of the treat. “Can I taste you?” she asked.
