Big O Box Set

by Penny Wylder

  I finish lubing up my favorite toy—the XL realistically veined dildo, rainbow-colored just for fun—and grab a set of anal beads to slather in lube too. One hole has never really been enough to get me off.

  My clit is aching with unfulfilled desire by the time the scene on screen shifts to the best part. The guys lift the girl up between them, one spreading her ass cheeks wide. I moan a little as I imitate the motion, sitting up on the bed and pushing the first bead into my ass. I can feel my sphincter close around that first bead, tight and aching for more. I watch the porn stars lower their shared girl, one still with his cock deep in her pussy, the other slowly entering her ass, inch by inch, as she cries out in pleasure.

  I push a second bead into my ass, then a third. With each bead, the size increases and the delicious stretched, full sensation increases. By the time I have the whole string in my ass, I’m moaning alone in my darkened bedroom, my other hand hovering above my clit, rubbing across my mound, careful not to touch my clit directly, not yet. I want to make this last. I deserve it after the week I’ve had.

  I take the dildo next and lean back, sitting on my ass just enough to make me really feel the beads stuffed in there. At the same time, I drag my gaze back to the TV, to the guys as they lift the girl between them and start to pump into her, fucking both holes, filling her completely.

  I push the dildo into my pussy, a single hard, deep thrust to get me going. I cry out as it enters me, stretching my tight pussy wide, stuffing me fully. A little bit of my juices mingled with the lube drips down onto my fingers, and I imagine that it’s those guys’ fingers instead, feeling my pussy lips, enjoying the sight of me stuffed with their cocks.

  I work myself with both hands, one tugging and pressing alternately on the string of anal beads and the other pumping the dildo deep into myself, faster, faster, until I’m working as fast as I can. I buck against the bed, moaning in sync with the girl on the screen being mercilessly fucked by those two hot, huge hunks.

  She comes the same time I do, though her screaming sounds a lot louder. I gasp aloud as the orgasm rocks through my body, making my pussy clench tight around the dildo. I can feel the beads more than ever as my ass tightens too, my whole body reacting to the sensation of being so completely taken.

  I sink down against the pillows, panting, my clit still twitching, the aftershocks of the orgasm rocketing through my nerve endings.

  Then I pull the dildo out of me slowly, an inch at a time. I take out the anal beads next, shivering each time one pops free and sends another riot through my nervous system.

  When I’m finished, I turn off the TV and lever myself upright. I tiptoe to the bathroom and turn the sink on warm. Wash down both toys and glance at myself in the mirror with a sigh. There are bags under my hazel-green eyes, and my cute, short little red pixie cut needs an update ASAP. The brown roots show and the ends are frayed and split. Signs of how little I’ve been paying attention to myself, what with all the insanity at the bakery.

  But I don’t have time to fix myself up right now. I don’t have time to do anything, really, not even scope out a decent one-night stand at the local bar scene. I need to be back at work by 6am tomorrow, which means I should already be in bed. Even this one-on-one dalliance with me, myself and I took up more time than it should have.

  I finish washing off the toys and pack them back into the drawer that currently holds my entire sex life. Some people might be embarrassed to own this many toys—everything from vibrators in every size, to anal plugs and beads and bullets, up to just about any flavor of dildo you can imagine, with and without vibration depending on the mood. Hell, there’s even a suction-cup model that sticks to the wall, for when I really need a hands-free moment. Another one is weighted to the floor so I can ride cowgirl without needing any one-night stand to ride.

  My friends sometimes make fun of me—they don’t know what I’m into at all. They joke about how I haven’t gotten any for ages, but they don’t know that I can take care of my own needs—or that no guy I’ve found has ever even been willing to entertain the idea of helping out.

  Much as I wish I could find a guy as kinky as I am, I don’t claim that persona in front of my friends. They know I like something unusual, but have no idea what exactly. The closest my bestie Lara ever came to finding out was when she almost stumbled onto one of my sex-toy-of-the-month club deliveries (which would have killed me from embarrassment). But honestly, what’s the difference between this and hooking up with strangers every so often? A girl’s got needs—and I meet mine just fine. I’ve yet to meet a guy who’s even come close to being able to fulfill me, so I’d rather take my sex life into my own hands, thank you very much.

  I slide the drawer closed and turn off the light. Then I face-plant into bed and try to ignore the alarm clock in the corner with its huge flashing light-up display.

  11:32pm. That only leaves me 5 and a half hours of sleep before I need to be upright and getting ready for tomorrow. Tomorrow, which will be just as insane as yesterday and the day before. Great. Can’t wait.

  I pull my pillow over my face and try my best to doze off. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the chiseled abs and sculpted chests of those guys from the porno. I drift off imagining myself sandwiched between them. Though part of me still feels guilty, even now, for letting myself get this distracted.

  Tomorrow I’ll fix it. Tomorrow I’ll get my head in the game.

  Tonight, I let myself have my fantasies, if only for a little while.

  2

  Sure enough, my trusty old alarm clock sounds right at 5am on the dot. I groan and roll over to slap snooze, until I remember that it’s Friday, and I’ve agreed to bake three more wedding cakes than we can conceivably finish by this weekend, and I don’t have time to snooze, I need to get my ass out the door as soon as humanly possible.

  So I squint through my morning routine, rubbing sleep from my eyes in the shower. I’m so exhausted I brush my teeth and accidentally spit toothpaste into the toilet, then try to put the brush itself back into the shower caddy. Once I finally manage to get myself in something at least approaching working order, I throw on the same outfit I wore yesterday—we have uniforms at the bakery, so it doesn’t matter if I re-wear it, right? —and jog out to my car.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. The fact that I have to stop by a Starbucks drive-through for an XL black coffee before I even make it past the end of my road, and then blast pop music at a near-deafening level in the car the whole drive to the bakery just to wake up, doesn’t change the fact that this is my dream. My best friend Lara and I saved and schemed for years to open this bakery. We expected to be in the hole for at least two years while we built up a name for ourselves.

  But now, as we near the second anniversary of opening Red Velvet, we’ve already been named Best New Bakery in Town, Top 50 Bakeries in the State, and been featured on a few really well-known travel websites and bakery blogs. There’s even a whole Pinterest page we once found dedicated to our cakes. We’re more than solvent—we’re more profitable than I’d imagined we could be this soon into the game, and we’ve got a wait-list 3 months long for big event cakes like the weddings and anniversaries that got us this far.

  So I’m not complaining. Not at all. It’s just that, with this much going on, everything else tends to fall by the wayside a little. I haven’t taken a vacation, not even a day off, since our opening day. I’ve hardly had time to see my friends and family, let alone meet new people or go on dates.

  But I’m living the dream. If this is the price to pay, so be it. I’m happy to pay it.

  I pull up to the shop just as Lara is opening the grill out front. She’s been my partner-in-crime this whole time, as we opened and got everything set up. Lara helps bake a little bit, but it’s mostly me heading up the kitchen and the small team of assistants we’ve hired over the past couple years. She handles the front-of-shop things—invoices, customer meetings, balancing the books. All the day-to-day of the business that make m
e want to rip my hair out and scream bloody murder. But that’s why we make the perfect team. I’m the creative crazy one and she’s the down-to-earth voice of reason that keeps me sane—and keeps the shop ticking.

  “Morning!” I call as I climb out of the driver’s seat.

  “You’re early,” she shouts back, wagging a finger.

  “Need to get a head start on the Deutschs’ 3-tier if we want to be finished in time to knock out the Hendricks’ and the Barrows’ cake all by the end of the day,” I reply as I jog up to meet her at the storefront.

  Lara squints at my face, a too-close inspection that she’s all too fond of throwing at me lately. “How much sleep did you get?” she asks.

  “Had a late night,” I reply with a shrug. “Nothing I’ve not done before.”

  “Uh huh.” She rolls her eyes. “Let me guess. It was not a late night doing anything particularly exciting.”

  “Unless you count doing myself exciting?” I flash a grin and duck under the grill she’s still raising so I can skip into the store before her.

  “How many times do I need to tell you to take a damn vacation, girl?” she scolds as she follows me inside, heading straight to the register to begin the morning set-up. “Or hell, even just a day off.”

  “We have every Sunday off,” I point out.

  She snorts. “That doesn’t count.”

  I wag a finger at her. “Don’t let any of our religiously-inclined customers catch you saying that.”

  Lara groans. “Carmine, you haven’t got a single sanctimonious bone in your body, so don’t pretend that you take Sunday off because it’s holy. You’d work every single day, 365 days a year if I’d let you.”

  “And? I’ve got good work ethic,” I reply as I shrug on my apron and dust myself down, getting ready to head into the back and fire up the ovens.

  “There’s good work ethic and then there’s excessive to the point of becoming detrimental work ethic,” she calls after me.

  I ignore her. There’s too much to do to waste time debating this anyway.

  By the time our two assistants, Carl and Jen, arrive, I’m already elbow-deep in a bowl of batter. I shout instructions at them over my shoulder, and together the three of us set about putting together a 3-tiered wedding cake for the Deutsch wedding tomorrow. Next up on the docket will be the 5-tier for the Hendricks wedding, and after that a simple 2-tier for the Barrows, which I’ll save until the end of the day, because their wedding isn’t until Sunday morning. But since we close on Sunday, and tomorrow we need to get moving on the anniversary cake and several birthday parties we’re catering for Monday, I’ve calculated that we need to get that cake in the oven by end of day at the latest.

  Things are running smoothly until 10am. At 10am, Carl steps out back for a smoke break without warning Jen. Jen, busy with prepping the fondant for the Deutsch cake, misses the Hendricks’ first tier coming out of the oven, which we set on an automatic roller to save time and prevent over-baking. The cake falls out of the automatic dispenser with a clatter, and before I even turn around to witness the aftermath, I can already tell it’s bad from Jen’s shriek.

  There’s cake everywhere. Cake, and the bowl of fondant mix that Jen upended in her rush to catch the falling cake.

  I manage to reign in my freak-out. I instruct Jen to clean up, step out back and grab Carl to help, and then get down on hands and knees myself to assist. Together, the three of us manage to put the kitchen back in some semblance of working order. But by the time we’ll have another first tier ready to bake, we’ll already be a few hours behind schedule.

  That’s when Lara pops her head into the back.

  “Carmine? Can you come help me review the orders for next week?”

  “That’s your jurisdiction,” I call back, my voice tight.

  “I just want to make sure we’re only taking on the number of orders we can reasonably handle,” she replies. “I was reviewing the books and it seems like there might be more here than we can really finish in time.”

  “There’s exactly as many orders as we can handle,” I snap. “No more, no less.”

  “Carmine.”

  My back stiffens. I recognize that tone. I’ve known Lara since college, and I can count on one hand the number of actual fights we’ve had. She doesn’t get pissed easily, and when she does, I’m almost always the one at fault. But that’s her borderline-annoyed tone. Which means a few more steps in the wrong direction, and we’re going to have a problem on our hands.

  I take a deep breath and lock eyes with Carl, then Jen. Both of them have a deer-in-headlights expression on. They’re younger than Lara and me, just out of college, but they’ve been around the bakery long enough to know that my bestie and I never fight. Usually.

  Then again, I usually don’t freak out on anyone for something like dropping a cake, either. Shit happens. Anyone that’s worked in the food industry long enough knows that.

  So I take a second deep breath, yank off my apron, nod in what I hope is a reassuring manner to our two assistants, and then head out to the front of the shop.

  “I’m sorry,” I say before Lara can start. “I’m just stressed—we dropped a cake, and now we’re behind schedule, and…” I stop when she holds up a hand.

  “Did I not tell you that you were overbooking yourself this weekend?” she asks with an eyebrow raised.

  I bite my lip. “Maybe.”

  “And did I not warn you that mistakes happen and we need to build more free time into the schedule to accommodate for them?”

  I clear my throat this time. “Also maybe.”

  “So when I ask you to go over the schedule for next week and make sure it’s not too insane, your correct response should be…”

  I groan. “Yes, okay, I’ll try to cut it down a little. But Lara, we’ve got so many orders pouring in—”

  “Right, because we’re doing great. Carmine, we don’t have to squeeze in every single order we receive. People are clamoring for our cakes because they’re amazing, but we can’t meet every single demand we receive. And we don’t need to. People understand we’re busy, and they know they need to book us farther in advance. We can trim down the schedule a little bit without losing business, you know.”

  I swallow hard. “I know, you’re right…”

  “Are you okay?” Lara squints at me, a little more closely than I’d like. I remember the bags I spotted under my eyes last night, and how hard it was to drag myself out of bed this morning.

  “I’m fine,” I mumble.

  “You need to take care of yourself too, you know,” she replies. “Nobody’s getting any cakes if you go and work yourself into the ground.”

  “I take care of myself,” I protest.

  “Carmine, when was the last time you did anything but work?” Lara lifts an eyebrow and fixes me with a sardonic gaze. “Hell, when was the last time you got laid?”

  “I…” I snap my mouth shut again, because I’m still counting.

  She snorts again. “I bet you’d be a lot less snippy if you’d had sex anytime in the last two years, you know.”

  “I’ve had sex!” I protest.

  “Oh really? When?” she counters.

  I bite my lip again. Shit. She’s right. Now that I think about it, I haven’t been with another person since… Well, since before we got the business loan approved for the store. Before Red Velvet’s official opening day. I’ve been with my collection of sex toys pretty regularly since then, but I’m guessing by Lara’s estimation that won’t count.

  “It’s not that long,” I reply slowly.

  “Carmine, you’re 28 years old. It’s not super normal to have not had sex with anyone for two whole years. Come on, get back out there, get laid! What have you got to lose besides some of this grumpy attitude?” She grins and slaps me on the shoulder.

  I stomp away from her toward the cash register as a distraction. “What’s the point?” I call over my shoulder. “Remember the last guy I even came close to dating?�
�� Derrick Weaver, the nerdiest guy in town. He was hot in a geeky kind of way, but in the bedroom, well…

  “Derrick doesn’t count.” Lara leans against the counter and watches me double-check the schedule for next week, purse my lips, and then cross off a couple of the cakes, which we should be able to reschedule with the customers, since they’re for events that are still a few days in the future. “You told me the two of you had basically zero chemistry.”

  “Because he wasn’t into anything I was into,” I protest.

  “Ah yes, your mystery kink.” Lara rolls her eyes. I glare at her, but she widens her eyes and spreads her hands. “Serious question, Carmine. You won’t even tell me what you’re into. Are you sharing it with the guys you hook up with?”

  “I’ve tried,” I protest. My friends all know that I’ve got some kinks in the closet.

  It’s been a running joke since high school. But I’ve never felt like I needed to share with my nearest and dearest. The guys I’ve tried asking about exploring my fantasies have shut them down pretty fast—which makes me feel like my friends would do the same if they knew exactly what I like. Being stuffed so full I feel like I’ll explode. It’s not exactly a normal desire.

  I lean back on the stool and sigh, counting through my exes—not just the ones I’ve dated, but even the one-night stands. “I’ve talked to more than a few of them about it, Lara. And any guy I’ve ever talked to really openly about what I like has freaked out.”

  I can still remember the last time I tried to honestly explain what I wanted. It was with Derrick, after he said he was interested in trying some kinky stuff. I asked him to lube up one of my really thick dildos and use his hands to push that into my pussy while he fucked me in the ass. He turned a shade of red I’ve never seen outside of our signature Red Velvet cakes, and told me he couldn’t imagine doing that to a nice girl like me.

  We broke up a couple weeks later.