Carrie Makes Cake

As soon as the thought crossed her mind again, knowing she still had a good while to wait for the cakes to finish, she knew she was going to go through with it. The thrill of nervousness and anticipation already had her breath coming faster again. She tried not to think about which neighbours could see her, whether or not she knew them in the first place while she sidled up to the window. If she was going to do this, she figured, she was going to do it properly -- directly in front of the window. No hiding.

Dozens of irrelevant details flooded her mind, then, distracting her. Do I at least have nice knickers on? Are any of my neighbours on that side fit? Do I know any of them? Will I be able to look them in the eye if I do this? It was her subconscious trying to protect her from perceived danger, she knew, but knowing it didn't make it go away.

Fuck it. Without further thought, she quickly unbuttoned and then unzipped her jeans. She hesitated briefly with only her slender hips and the tightness of the skinny jeans keeping them in place. A second later, she yanked them down to her knees in one motion. She paused again there, another wicked idea presenting itself to her. She turned her back to the window before bending over to finish the job, presenting her prone, pert buttocks to any lucky viewer. She found herself struggling to pull the jeans off over her feet, though, adding several unintended jiggles of her buttocks to the show.

She found herself blushing and flustered by the time she stood upright, self-consciously readjusting the knickers that had ridden up between her cheeks slightly. Blushing, but exhilarated. Still, enough was enough. She practically leapt out of the window's line of sight, residual adrenaline putting a spring in her step. Oh, my god. Did I really just do that? She was so worked up now that part of her just wanted to masturbate while the initial rush remained. A smaller but not insignificant part of her wanted to do it in front of the window, but she overruled that. Not today, she told herself, but she knew in that moment that it would only be a matter of time. It seemed like a logical end to the path she was on.

Besides, what if the cakes finished in the middle of it? She was damned if she was going to let them spoil after all they'd been through.

Gradually, her body calmed down and, with it, her mind settled, too. She was still thinking about what she'd done, what she might do in future, but the eagerness had dissipated. The visceral urge had faded enough for her to think straight. It was like coming down off something, only she didn't have a headache or a sense of self-loathing. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was proud of herself for having done something so daring, strangely confident in the assumption that anyone who had seen her would have enjoyed the view. Hell, maybe they'd masturbated watching her, this semi-imaginary pervert. Rather than disgust her, the idea gave her another brief thrill. It wasn't that she particularly wanted a creepy stranger wanking over her, but the idea that somebody would want to she found surprisingly arousing.

Carrie checked the time on her phone. The performance had taken less than a minute, but working herself up to it and then musing afterwards meant that she was almost perfectly in time for the cupcakes to be ready. She took a moment to set up a space on the worktop for the cakes to cool, got the icing in position beside that, and then it was time to open the oven.

She would be slightly in-view of the window again, for flats at the correct angle, but although she wasn't interested in more thrill-seeking right now, she was long past caring about being seen. The clock on her phone ticked over to the next minute and, grabbing a tea towel, she opened the oven door and waited for the heat wave to dissipate before pulling the tray out far enough to examine the cakes.

It wouldn't have surprised her, in the circumstances, to find that she had forgotten to put the oven on. What she found in the indentations, though, was a dozen nigh-perfect sponges. Carrie breathed out a sigh of relief she hadn't realised she'd been holding onto. Evidently, she really had expected the worst.

Carefully, she lifted the muffin tray onto the cooling rack she had set up, and took a step back so she could admire her handiwork, oblivious to the fact that she was once again directly in front of the window. Not bad for all that, she thought. And not much can go wrong now.

Lifting them carefully, and only once they were cool enough to touch, Carrie lifted the cakes one at a time, pinching the casings between thumb and finger. Everything she did, she did with extra care -- wariness, even. She was determined to avoid another slip-up. Now all she had to do was ice the cakes, copiously, and get to munching. She grabbed the buttercream, but realised she didn't have a piping tip to hand. Not a problem, she told herself confidently, lifting the bag in one hand, making extra sure it was the right way up.

The less-used kitchenware was in a cupboard at the far end of the kitchen, but the kitchen itself was so small that said cupboard was only a couple of feet away. What Carrie forgot, however, was that she had left her discarded jeans in a heap between her and the cupboard she needed to access. She didn't quite fully trip over them, but she did stumble badly enough for the bag of buttercream to go flying from her hands. She was so focused on maintaining her equilibrium that she could do nothing to stop the bag landing upside-down on her head, whereupon it deposited about half of its stodgy contents.

Pink slop splattered Carrie's forehead and an inch or so of the top of her head. The bag then landed on the floor with a thick, wet splat, but not before leaving an inch-wide streak of buttercream down the left side of Carrie's face. All of this happened before she could even shriek. More importantly, it happened before she could adjust her trajectory. The result was that she stood heavily on the bag, which had split with the impact and was now spilling buttercream into a thick, shallow puddle. Her right foot, long since bereft of shoe or sock, squelched the slimy stuff, making an oddly satisfying squishing noise and causing Carrie to cringe more powerfully than anything that had happened thus far.

'Oh, my god,' she squawked, a shiver of disgust running up her spine. Her first instinct was to throw a tantrum, but she managed to overcome that urge. For one thing, she didn't really want to lift her foot out of the buttercream puddle, knowing the movement would make her squirm again. She would have to come to terms with that, though. After all, what else could she do? Stand in the puddle till it dried out? Ridiculous.

Bracing herself for another bout of cringing, she lifter her foot out of the puddle. Like earlier, though, she couldn't stop herself from giggling slightly at the slimy sensation. It was faintly disgusting, of course, but there was a juvenile pleasure, too -- a tactile silliness that couldn't be denied. Carrie found that she couldn't resist stomping her foot back down again, just to see what it would feel like. Squishy and gross was the answer, but silly and strangely enjoyable with it.

Carrie almost couldn't believe what she was doing, but her next move was to slide her left foot into the slowly expanding pool of slime. There was something weirdly satisfying about making the mess symmetrical, like some small wrong in the universe had been righted. She stamped her feet a couple of times, ignoring the instincts telling her to stop and tidy up immediately. Indeed, she had practically forgotten about the mess in her hair and the streak still clinging to her face. The urge to stop and squelch, to do what she knew she shouldn't, had completely overcome her sense of propriety. She had gone through the frustration of things going wrong, through the disgust of slime on her skin and had come out the other side embracing the ridiculousness and puerile enjoyment of making a mess.

Distantly aware of the fact that she would need to clean this up at some point, Carrie struck upon an even crazier idea. Am I really going to do this, she asked herself, knowing the answer before she'd even fully formed the idea in her head. She stared down at the puddle, mushed and splattered, but still amply large for the idea that just wouldn't leave her alone. She knew that dwelling on it too long would increase the likelihood of making excuses for not doing it, so she gave herself an internal countdown: three, two, one!

On one, she sat down quickly, right in the middle of the buttercream puddle. There was no giggle this time, almost no reaction at all to begin with, while she practised a bit of mindfulness, letting her mind and body process the unfamiliar sensations. After a moment, she gave her hips an experimental little twist, wondering what it would feel like to shift and squelch the goo beneath her.

It was... indescribable, she thought. At least, she had no real frame of reference. Never before had she in a puddle of sugary mess, let alone wriggled in it. She did so again, not exactly enjoying it -- not yet. The slop shifted as she moved the pressure of her bum cheeks, causing a clinging, cloying sensation where the gummy mixture clung to her knickers and her skin. It didn't soak through the fabric of her white satin knickers like the water had done to her top, but it was wet enough that some moisture forced its way through the shiny material. The more she wriggled, the more wet stickiness made its way through -- so, naturally, she continued to wriggle her ships and grind her fleshy buttocks into the puddle.

All of this was instinct, now. She had thrown caution to the wind and was writhing in a puddle of buttercream just to find out what it felt like. It felt absurd, ridiculous, decadent. If anyone had caught her in the act, she would have died of embarrassment, but that wasn't going to happen and she wasn't even thinking about it happening. She was merely enjoying -- yes, enjoying -- the feelings.

Then something more cognition-based made itself heard. I've felt it on all of my most sensitive parts, except for the most sensitive one of them all. That was as far as she allowed the rationalising to go. In a heartbeat, she had scooped up two handfuls of ruined buttercream. She hesitated briefly, feeling as though some threshold was about to be crossed, but she knew she was in this to its natural conclusion, now. Whatever it was. A second later, she was stuffing both handfuls of gunk into her panties, making sure it was tightly packed against her pussy.

Now this was something new and unusual. She gave hew new bulge a poke, felt it give way under her finger, splaying and spreading around the inside of her knickers. Then she gave it a light pat, then a much firmer one, almost making herself gasp. Oh, fuck. She couldn't be sure if it was just the impact of the slap itself that had sent that little thrill up her spine or the added movement of the buttercream had enhanced it. Only one thing for it: she slapped it again, focusing on how the gunk felt against her.

It was certainly helping, she realised. The buttercream softened the blow of the slap somewhat, while also adding an extra layer of vibration, slipping and sliding around her labia. It wasn't enough to get her off, but it was enough to make her want to get off.

Carrie was only absently aware of how ridiculous this had gotten, as though someone else had pointed it out and she was only half-listening. There was no turning back now. One hand had made its way into her buttercream-filled knickers before she even realised it. The other, still covered in residual gunk, lazily found its way to her right nipple. Despite everything, she was still surprised to find herself slick. Her fingers found her clitoris and started to rub, gently at first, but soon speeding up as she got more and more into what she was doing.

Unthinking, uncaring, her left hand drifted away from her breast and into the remains on buttercream puddle that she sat in. She ran her fingers through it a few times, then scooped up what she could. She wasn't entirely sure what she wanted to do with it yet, so she opened and closed her fist around it several times, continuing to work her clit with the other hand. She tried smearing the slime over her nipple but it was too thick to achieve the desired effect -- not that she truly knew what that was.

As she felt the familiar tensing and relaxing of her muscles, she knew exactly what she should do with the slop. The thought of doing what she had realised she wanted to do got her pulse racing even more, drew the moment of climax even closer. She increased the speed and pressure with which she was stroking her clit, her back arching, her free hand continuing to open and close around the squelchy buttercream. As climax approached, she slapped the slimy hand into her own face, not enough to hurt, but enough to feel it. She left her hand there for a heartbeat, fingers splayed wide so she could cover as much of her face as possible. It wasn't enough, though. Orgasm washed over her and she knew she had to act quickly before she lost the nerve. Still in the throes, still hyper aware of the feeling of buttercream under her constantly shifting buttocks, she smeared gunk around her face, making herself more and more dishevelled.

She was wanton, now -- eager to destroy herself. She assumed correctly that her make-up was ruined, and it was strangely satisfying. There was catharsis in eliminating the look she crafted every day, an unexpected sense of freedom. She continued to work the goo into her face, set against a backdrop of breathy, high-pitched "mmms" and "ooohs."

Then, like a wave on a beach, it all receded. Her muscles relaxed, her mind, too, and Carrie was left basking in the afterglow of her orgasm. Thoughts of cleaning up, ideas of getting things back to normal, all of it could wait. She wanted to bathe in her own sunny disposition for as long as she could, tidying be damned.

Both of her hands relaxed, resting where they lay. Carrie let out a hearty, contented sigh. This isn't what I had in mind when I set out to cure my boredom, she mused absently. I'll have to make cupcakes more often.