𝑏𝑢𝑛ᥫ᭡

I was in charge of bringing the cake to my friend’s bachelorette party.

Have you ever tried transporting a cake in a car? Heavy. Oversized. Delicate. To keep it from tipping or getting ruined, I placed it on the floor in front of the passenger seat. The box was so big I had to spread my legs around it—wide, exposed—one on each side, holding it steady with my thighs.

It left me open.

Halfway to the party, the man driving glanced at me and muttered how hard I was making him just by sitting there like that. A moment later, his hand settled on my left thigh. Instinctively, my body tried to close—but there was nowhere to go. The cake kept my legs apart, holding me open for him.

His hand didn’t rush.

It lingered.

Then it slid higher than my skirt, slow and deliberate, along the inside of my thigh, until his fingers brushed the delicate lace of my underwear.

“Naughty girl…” he murmured.

“I knew you’d be wearing something barely there.”

He moved the fabric aside and traced my clit with lazy, knowing strokes, as if he had all the time in the world. A soft moan slipped from my lips before I could stop it.

“Good girl.”

One finger slipped inside me, stretching me open—testing how ready I already was. Then a second, pressing deeper. Then a third, filling me slowly. I was soaking wet, my breathing uneven, my body responding before my mind could catch up. I could feel everything.

Every inch.

Every second.

I was trapped between his hand and that damn cake, aching, open, wet.

When we arrived at my friend’s house, she opened the door half-done with her makeup, completely unaware, and told me to leave the cake in the kitchen while she finished getting ready upstairs. He offered to help, calm and casual, as if nothing had happened at all.

The moment the box was set on the counter, he grabbed me.

He spun me around, pressed me forward over the kitchen island, and held me there. He unzipped his pants, spread my legs without asking, and thrust into me hard—once, twice, three times—claiming me with each movement.

The cake sat there beside us, perfect and untouched.

The party hadn’t even started yet.