Another Kind of Baker's Daughter

The vat bubbled, and Albrecht looked up from his spellbooks when he heard the bubbles pop. Quickly, he stood up from the small table jammed into the corner of his bakery and took up his staff, which had been leaning against the wall nearby. He crossed the baking floor to the huge vat of dough and climbed the step-stool up to its rim. He stuck the end of his staff in and began to stir furiously while chanting the incantations he'd spent the last hour going over again and again. The broad, spatulate head of his staff churned the contents of the vat like an oversized wooden spoon, channeling arcane energy through his hands down into the gooey mixture: gingerbread dough.

Words of power echoed through the empty bakery as he chanted; he'd dismissed his apprentices and baker's assistants alike the night before, for today's undertaking was one meant for him alone. A grin split his face above his neatly trimmed beard as the dough in the vat roiled of its own accord. He gave his staff one last stir and then left it, leaping down off the step stool to prepare the next phase of the spell. His staff kept turning, stirring the dough without his hand guiding it.

On the floor below the vat stood the focus of the next part of his endeavours: a tall, iron mould, split in two and hinged. He dashed back to his table, snatching a large clay pot from where it had been propping up a spellbook, and ran back to the mould. He swung the two halves apart on well-oiled hinges, and opened the pot. He pulled a horse-hair brush out of the sleeve of his wizard's robe, dipped it into the open pot, and began to paint the inside of the mould with his unguent, a compound he had carefully mixed the night before. He chanted yet more arcane phrases as he went, coating each curve and cranny of the mould with the slightly buttery formula. When the pot had been depleted and the last square inch had been covered, he swung the two halves of the mould closed again and sealed them together with two heavy locks.

The vat continued to bubble, hot dough writhing as his staff continued to stir. It was almost time. He pushed the mould up to the edge of the vat, then waved his hand and spoke an eldritch word. Chains descended from the rafters of the bakery ceiling, lashing themselves around the great vat of dough. He yanked his hand down, as though hauling on an invisible cord, and the chains lifted the vat up off the smokeless fire it had been resting on. The flames vanished, no longer needed, and Albrecht made another gesture, causing the vat to slowly tip forward, until the hot gingerbread dough was almost spilling out. He formed a picture in his mind of exactly what he desired, and spoke the final word of his incantations. The vat tipped, pouring thick, steaming dough into the open mouth of the mould.

The mould was full in a matter of moments. Time was critical now. He left the vat, still dripping the last dregs of hot dough onto the floor, and pushed the mould into the tall, walk-in oven he'd originally built to bake enormous batches of pastry at once. Every rack had been torn out, however, leaving a tall, brick-lined space, just big enough to fit the mould. He strained with both his arms and his arcane might, and in minutes, the mould stood at the back of the oven. He quickly shut the door and began to stoke the fire- a real fire this time, not a conjured one. He was at the limits of his magical power as it was, and he wasn't through yet. With some effort, the fire roared to life. Sweat standing out on his brow, he painted glowing runes of power on the oven door and spoke one final enchantment. That done, stumbled back over to his table to wait, exhausted by the long, sleepless night, and by his vast expenditure of power. Head down on the open face of a spellbook, he slipped into sleep and began to dream.

He woke to the sound of a dull, metallic pounding, and had to fight back an almost overwhelming surge of loneliness as his wife's soft smile slipped inevitably back into the fog of his dream. He shook his head and stood, the beginnings of giddy excitement replacing the feeling; he'd been lonely for a long time after his wife had died so young, but would not be for much longer. Not if that pounding meant success. He crossed the bakery floor, now dappled with morning sunlight, and stood in front of the giant oven's thick steel door. The pounding echoed from inside. He cast about for his staff, finding it still gently spinning in the empty vat, and picked it up, wanting to make a powerful first impression. He struck the floor with the tip of his staff, and the oven door swung open.

The mould stood revealed within, blocky and imposing. The pounding continued. He struck his staff against the floor again.The locks on the mould burst open and fell off, and the two halves swung slowly apart. And there, revealed, stood the most beautiful thing Albrecht could imagine.

Her skin was a deep, warm brown, glowing in the morning sunlight, still carrying the residue of the magical oil he had coated the mould with. Her legs were long and slim, her stomach smooth, her breasts full and pert, like two perfectly baked confections. Her face was delicate and warm, her hair, a gooey mess of uncooked dough about her shoulders. Between her thighs, her lower lips peeked out, slightly puffed by the rising of the dough. She was a golem, a perfect golem of gingerbread. Her eyes opened, revealing dark, warm depths.

"Come to me," said Albrecht, extending his nearly trembling hand. "I know you can. Come." She blinked, and pulled out of the mould with a slight sucking sound. Her perfectly baked feet touched the brick floor of the oven tentatively, and she took a shaky step towards him before stumbling. Albrecht stepped forward, but she caught herself, and her next step was more confident.

"That's right," said Albrecht, smiling warmly. "This is walking. Now another step. Come this way." She came shakily towards him, still feeling her way, and Albrecht backed out of the door of the oven. She followed him out into the bakery proper, looking around with confused eyes.

"Yes," said Albrecht, taking her shoulders in his hands when she got close to him. Her eyes snapped back to his. Her skin was deliciously warm to the touch, like fresh bread, and she smelled of cinnamon and cloves. Her eyes were moist pools of molasses.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked her gently. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, eyes wide at the new sensation of air on her tongue.

"Ma... Master?" she said, hesitantly.

"Good!" said Albrecht. "Good. You can talk. That's right, I'm your master. I created you."

She looked down at herself, seeing herself for the first time. She marvelled at her hands, her dark brown fingers curling and uncurling. Sweet steam escaped from her joints as she began to cool.

"Why?" she said, after a moment.

"Because I was alone," said Albrecht. She accepted his answer at face value, and turned to look around the bakery again, enraptured by her first view of objects she had never in her short existence seen before. Albrecht reached up gently, and brushed his fingers over her gooey hair.

She spun around to look at him, eyes wide again. "...Master?" she squeaked, cheeks darkening as molasses pooled under her warm skin.

"Did I hurt you?" Albrecht asked, drawing his hand back. Golems were unpredictable. He'd done his best while creating this one, but it was possible she was more fragile than she appeared.

"N-no." she said. She stepped closer to him, unconsciously. She still radiated the heat of the oven, even if she was beginning to cool off. Impulsively, Albrecht leaned in and kissed her on the mouth.

Her hands flailed for an instant, and then found the front of his robes and clutched. She tasted wonderful--exactly like he'd expected a golem made of gingerbread to taste, all cinnamon and clove. At first she was passive under the kiss, but after a moment, her lips began to move, and her tongue found his.

"Master..." she said, when he broke the kiss.

"I've been alone so long," he breathed against her cheek, clutching her close. "I know you don't understand. May the gods forgive me, but it's been so long." He dropped his staff, and it clattered to the floor. His hands found her hips, and he picked her up. She was so light, so airy. She squeaked, and her hands clutched his shoulders. He shuddered--his wife had made sounds like that, once.

His mouth found hers again, and he kissed her hungrily. Her lips, teeth, tongue were all hot and wet, the dough so much softer inside where the oven hadn't baked it fully. He wondered what she would be like on his cock, and felt himself beginning to grow stiff. She jumped when his growing erection brushed her through the front of his robe, uncomprehendingly, but her mouth had begun to work against his again, and after her initial shock she ignored it. She didn't--couldn't possibly--understand what was happening, but her will was linked to his; what he felt, she was beginning to feel.

He backed up until his thighs hit the edge of his table and he turned them both around, scattering spellbooks to the floor. He put her shapely bottom on the edge of the table and it flattened slightly on the hard surface, the sides puffing out and filling his hands. He pushed her back, and she didn't resist. His mouth found her nipple and she moaned, and then she blinked in shock at the sounds coming out of her own mouth.

"Master, what...?" she began, and then moaned again, as his hand clutched her other breast, his fingers dimpling her tougher crust and sinking into the soft dough that filled her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, unexpected by either of them.

"Call... call me Albrecht," he said, pulling back from her chest, the taste of cinnamon and molasses on his tongue. His left hand found her opening and began to caress, fingers sinking into her gooey folds with ease as his right hand began to hike up the hem of his robe. It had been so, so long. Sylvie was gone. The golem's back arched as his fingers curled within her, and if she required breath, her breath would have hitched.

"Master... Master Albrecht... I don't..." she stuttered, hips beginning to buck.

"I'm sorry," he said, pulling out his cock, hard as a granite countertop. "I know it's confusing. I'll explain it, I promise," he said, lining himself up. "But I couldn't wait. I... I just couldn't wait." He plunged himself into her.

She shrieked, back arching again, and her hands found his face and pulled him down towards her.

"Master Albrecht, I..." she groaned, as he began to pump into her. "Does this... please you?" She asked, hips bucking against him.

"So much," he said, pressing his face into her neck, inhaling her scent. Gingerbread had always been Sylvie's favourite treat. The smell was linked to her in his memories--it forever would be.

"Th-then..." she said, her hands finding the back of his neck. "Master doesn't... need to apologize." His cock twitched at her words, and she kissed him again, of her own accord for the first time. He rammed himself deeper into her, again and again. Her walls gripped him like a fist, her insides warm and wet and thick. It was like fucking a cake fresh from the oven--which was almost exactly what he was doing. Molasses clung to his cock every time he drew back, and squelched, thickly and audibly, every time he plunged back in. He was close now, he could feel it.

The golem's kisses were growing more desperate. He quickened his pace, crushing her to him. Her moist flesh began to give under his weight, and she cried out, not in pain but in overwhelming pleasure. His fist dug into her breast, fingers puncturing her supple crust, and her legs locked behind him as she squeezed down.

He bit the swell of her breast, a mouthful of gingerbread crumbling off between his teeth, and she came, her body spasming, her tight depths pulsating around him, flooding with yet more molasses and hot dough. He came too, the taste of gingerbread on his tongue, his hot seed spilling inside her.

He reared back in sudden shame to see the damage he knew he had caused her. Her chest rose and fell heavily, as though she were really breathing, the curve of one breast marred by the chunk he had taken out of her. Her pelvis and hips were half-crushed, crumbs crumbling away into powder, his seed and her own fluids leaking from her split groin in a coiled puddle of dark and light goo. He swallowed heavily, guiltily, cinnamon and clove still on his tongue, and opened his mouth to apologise profusely; she might have been a golem, but it was hard to see her as a thing after what they had just done.

Then she opened her eyes and looked up at him, her gaze half lidded.

"Master... Master Albrecht," she said, as the magic he'd poured into her creation began to knit her back together, hot dough welling up from inside her to fill in the cracks and crushed places and solidify back into her original shape. "I... I don't know what that was... but can we do it again?"

"Yes," he said, sighing in relief. "Oh yes."

He smiled. He'd loved Sylvie more than anything, and he'd always love her. But the smell of gingerbread was going to have new associations for him now.

"I think..." he said, out of breath himself. "I think you need a name." She smiled sleepily at him. He didn't think golems slept, but apparently they'd tired each other out.

"Whatever you say, Master Albrecht," she said.

"How about... Ginger?" he said, too tired to think beyond the obvious. She smiled again. "I like it," she said.

"Good," he said, and sat down heavily on the table beside her, his hand brushing her thigh as it repaired itself, still faintly concerned by the damage he'd caused. His fingers froze as he remembered a fantasy he'd never dared bring up with his wife, and the large stockpile of marzipan in his cold cellar.

"Ginger," he said, after thinking it over for a moment. "How would you like to have a sister?"