Pansy's Muffin

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PANSY'S MUFFIN

My Papa named me Giorgio, perhaps after the King of England? He never told me why. We were too busy earning a living to get into useless conversations.

Back in the swinging 80s, I was hired to be the night baker for Pansy's Muffin Shop on Broadway near Times Square in New York City. I had come to America to look for opportunities. I was 20 years old with a hard-on to succeed.

I was accompanied by a mutual friend, a 'cugino,' who had recommended me to the bakery. We arrived by subway early in the morning. I saw the large white wooden sign swinging in the breeze--Pansy's Muffins. It seemed like an odd specialty, but I was told Americans liked cupcakes and that muffins were in the same family. Having learned English from vulgar friends, I was amused. My understanding of what a muffin was, was quite different.

I was surprised, there were so few customers at that early hour. The variety of bakery products in the glass showcase was very limited. There were no breads or rolls. As for cakes for birthdays or fiestas, there were none. Just a plain 'Pansy Muffin' with white powdered sugar sprinkled on top or the same muffin with a cherry jam center.

The owner, Mrs. Pansy, an attractive lady, offered me a muffin to taste. It was uninspired, but I said, "Thank you," and asked for a napkin to remove the powdered sugar that coated my heavy beard. Even after shaving the bristles remained.

I said, "Oh yes muffin, very nice," not wanting to be critical. I knew I could liven up the bakery offerings assortment if I was hired.

Mrs. Pansy, dressed in a white coverall with an apron looked like a novice but her big eyes and broad smile were attractive. American women seemed to have such white teeth.

She said, "Come give us a trial, two weeks. If at the end of two weeks, we are pleased with your performance, we will make you a permanent employee. If not, we will let you go."

"What were you expecting for a salary?" she asked.

"I tell you what," I said, "I work for free for two weeks. If you are pleased, we figure out what the salary should be. This way you lose nothing."

"My 'cugino,' who accompanied me said to Pansy,

"It's a no-brainer, you can't lose. Giorgio is a good man."

"I don't want to be unfair," said Pansy.

"Don't you a-worry about nuthin. I'm a gonna make you a big success and lots-a money," I said in my broken English.

The deal was sealed with a handshake.

"Thank you, Madam, all I want is a chance to make you happy. I 'promiso' that I will."

And with the interview at an end, my 'cugino' and I returned to the subway platform. While we stood there awaiting the noisy train, I said to him,

"She has the Italian nose that I love."

The no-noses that were popular in photo models back then left me cold. "If only she were single, with that beautiful Italian nose, I would consider marriage."

"Well Caro, she has a husband but I think the marriage is not so good. You'll 'comprenderi' quando you meet him," said my 'cugino.'

—-------

I'll tell ya right away I knew more about being a baker than Pansy or her husband Marco would ever know!

From the time I was born, I'd spent my whole life inside a famous bakery in Naples. My mother gave birth to me on the glass counter where they rolled toffees and candies. I was born a half-hour after the store closed. Mama and Papa went back to baking bread for the Easter holiday while I was sucking tit.

My family have been bakers since the 1600s, with a special dispensation to serve the court of The Royal Palace, in Piazza del Plebiscito, the heart of historic Naples. The entire complex, which dates back to 1600, is made up of several buildings and smaller commercial spaces where our bakery stood.

A family squabble in the 18th century led to a famous duel between two ancestral baker brothers. Just before Antonio and Enrico were scheduled to kill each other, the Archbishop found a solution. Antonio was to stay as the chief pastry chef at the Royal Palace in Naples. Enrico would transfer to the Royal Palace of Caserta, an eighteenth-century palace in the Baroque style built to rival the French King's palace at Versailles.

I had spent my childhood learning every facet of baking. My mind was like a sponge, but as smart as I was, I could not defy the age-old tradition that the oldest brother would inherit the business. Of course, the royal family was no longer ruling Naples, but every citizen tried to keep some part of that tradition alive. Everyone except me.

I turned my back on tradition and refused to be my brother's lackey. I set out to find success in the new world. Little by little I learned to speak English. I worked odd jobs, often in construction, until my 'cugino' introduced me to Pansy.

He said, "She's a good-looking Italian girl born in Brooklyn, tall with large erect breasts, and a nice curvy ass. She owns a bakery and needs a baker. She doesn't know shit about running the business."

It turns out that with a small inheritance from her father, Pansy had purchased a working bakery business at a time when handcraft made one think that God had laughed at the baking industry. Since she could use Bisquick to make a decent waffle, she thought she could succeed in the kitchen. She purchased a bakery from a retiring owner who furnished her with a box of paper recipes and little else. Pansy and a worker struggled to produce a viable product centered on her designer's muffin. Success seemed a long way off.

Baking for a bakery is done at night so the goods are fresh in the morning. In addition, running the ovens all night at produces a lot of heat. It is necessary to do the baking at night during the hot weather.

The first night I worked for Pansy, I made many varieties of pastries. She couldn't believe it. The next week she stayed late and followed me everywhere trying to learn what I was doing. She even followed me into the bathroom while I was pissing and asked,

"How long is your cazzo?"

"In centimeters, it's about twenty-five centimeters. You can figure that out in inches on your own," I said. (9.84 inches)

When I was introduced to Pansy, there was no mention of her husband. Marco entered the picture several weeks later. He showed up late one night, introduced himself, and began to tell me how to do my job. It was obvious he knew nothing about baking. I nodded my head, smiled at him, and walked him to the door, shoving him out, and locking the door behind him.

It was obvious to me that Pansy's husband was a 'finochio.' That's an Italian word for celery or a fagot, i.e. a homosexual. Most waiters in Italy are Busoni, that is gay fuckers. In no way do I disparage their proclivities, they keep our restaurants running like clockwork. I just don't want them hanging around behind me hoping to practice sodomy.

I realized Marco was a queer the first night when he offered to give me a blow job. He must have thought I was gay like a waiter.

"Are you a man or a woman?"

"I'm a man," he said.

"Well, if you want to suck my cock," I told Senor Marco, "You'll have to get a sex change operation. I don'ta put my dick in another man's mouth."

After that, he kept his distance.

I was happy at my new job. Although I had a female boss, I was pretty much on my own. I'd work for hours without a break, and when it was very late and the traffic had cooled to a hum I'd venture out the door for a smoke, and watch the few stragglers walking home.

A week or ten days later, late at night, I heard a knock at the door, a rapitty rap rap. It was the signal knock that Pansy had told me to expect.

When I went to the front of the store, the smell of apricot tarts filled the air. I saw Pansy standing there shivering in the cold night air. I unbolted the door. She rushed in and I bolted the door.

"Ciao, Cara, what are you doing here so late at night?"

"What smells so good," she asked.

"The Napolitano fruit tarts I made. Something special for the Easter season. Let me get you one, they are cooling right now."

I fetched the tart on a lace doily and offered her a shiny plastic fork.

"Be-a careful, it's hot."

Pansy cautiously broke the tart into three pieces and tasted one.

"Oh, it's marvelous," Pansy said. "How lucky I was to find you," then she began to cry.

"What's the matter my dear, why you are a-crying?

"It's my husband, he has a new boyfriend, and he's talking about leaving me."

"So let him go, who needs him?"

"But he is my husband."

"He needs a man's cock to suck, he is that certain type of man. You can't change him, let him go."

"But, how will I run the store? He handles all the paperwork."

"You hire an accountant, easy peasy, it's no biggie. Flour, fruit, paper supplies, cash register tapes. I could do it myself with a little practice."

Pansy embraced me, I could feel her firm breasts pressed against my chest, and her tears wet my t-shirt. Her fingers found their way across my brow and into my curly hair. Her knee pressed against my crotch.

"What is so hard under my knee," she asked.

"My cazzo, you've excited me beyond my control to keep my passion hidden."

There was little else to think of, the laws of passion like the laws of physics can only be obstructed for so long before there is an explosion.

My hands caressed her breasts and feeling the heat of her sex, I touched her under her skirt. Moments later, I'd lifted her onto the work counter and spread her long legs over the edge of the table. I fitted between them. I pushed her thong to the side and saw the prize I was looking for. I moved my head so my mouth was just above her vulva and started to lick her like she was an ice cream born for my pleasure.

"What are you doing, Giorgio?"

"I'm kissing Pansy's Muffin."

There was no doubt she was into sex. She began to moan almost immediately. I licked up and down, then in circles, side to side, and with my hands on her vulva I spread her lips apart, they were like the wings of a butterfly and I began to tap on her clitoris with my tongue, first slowly and then more rapidly. I began to talk into her vulva lips as if her vulva was a microphone.

The vibrations were driving her mad, she started to shout, "Yes, yes, don't stop, I'm almost there," and that was when I licked further back with my long tongue, wetting her between her ass cheeks. My index finger passed between her moon globes of flesh and penetrated her rosebud gently. I sucked on her clitoris, pulling it into my mouth as far as it would go.

That was too much for her to bear, she began to climax, but I wanted to give her more. I continued to tongue her clit and lick her vulva in all directions. She reached for my head and held me tightly so I could not move away, which I had no intention of doing. How many orgasms she had? I never asked.

Finally, I came up for air.

"My husband never did this to me," she moaned."

"I will do you every night my darling, I answered."

"He says a woman's privates are unpleasant and bad tasting."

"Nonsense, he is a fool who has never tasted paradise."

"He used to be a normal man but after we were finanziati he changed."

"Yes, he discovered he liked cock more than cunt. But don't talk now, I have a surprise for you."

As she released my head, I moved closer and slipped the tip of my cock in between her wet labia.

"Oh yes, cum inside me," she whispered.

My 'cazzo' penetrated her very wet lips and entered her vagina. Little by little I got my entire cock inside her. My long 'cazzo' and hot red balls made an Easter dish of her virtue.

I was afraid she was in pain.

"Are you ok"?"

"Oh, you are so big, you fill me up like I've never felt before. Don't stop.

It did not take long for me to finish my mission, although I was in no rush. I filled her cunt with hot cum, When finally I withdrew, I stood over her. I could see her 'fica' was filled with a whirlpool of cum.

I grabbed a soft towel and moped her thighs.

"Is it ok what we did?" Pansy asked.

"Of course, now we are lovers."

"And my husband?"

"We a-gonna get rid of him and then we get married."

I took a finger full of baking dough and made a little ring. I put the pastry ring on Pansy's finger.

"You see, in a way, we are married, already."

—------------

After that evening, Pansy's nightly presence in the bakery became frequent, as did our lovemaking. She reached an understanding with her gay husband, and he left for parts unknown, maybe San Francisco, relinquishing any financial interest in the business he thought was a dead end.

By September, the first signs of a baby bump on Pansy's belly appeared. It was no longer a secret. We were lovers awaiting our first child.

One evening, when I reported to work, a sign worker had been there earlier. The large wooden 'Pansy's Muffin's' sign was gone and a larger sign, in gleaming metallic letters announcing 'Giorgio's Neapolitan Bakery' stood in its place.

Yes, coming to America was a good thing. Finding a new life together was 'Magnifico,' and night sex in a bakery is the perfect place.