It was Saturday morning. Through my bleary vision I could just make out the form of a policeman. I thought the film makers must have come back and that this was a bad actor.
“Mornin’ all,” he greeted me when he saw I was properly awake. I was right. He was an exceedingly bad actor. But there was no camera in evidence.
“Come along, move on, now, you can’t stop ’ere all day.”
“It’s a fair cop,” I said, despite the fact that he was black. “But I’m just waiting for the cake shop to open.”
“Well, if you would be kind enough to do it standing up by the shop in question, sir, I think that would be more agreeable.”
I struggled to my feet and shuffled over to the cake shop.
The policeman bid me good day and strolled off down the high street.
It seemed to take ages for the shop to open. All the while I was fantasising about the chocolate eclairs, strawberry gateaux, cream slices and fruit tarts that I was going to devour, a pool of saliva was deepening at my feet. Fortunately, I was equipped with my rubber ring. The papers later blamed this ‘flash flood’ on the sewers. I must get a better breath freshener.
Suddenly there was a key in the door. My eyes bulged and my tongue unrolled like a red carpet. The door opened. I leapt through and, throwing my hard-earned cash at the astounded baker, clambered into the shop window. I hoovered up all the cakes in the display. Then I emptied the hoover bag into my mouth. In went eccles cakes, meringues, custard doughnuts, cream horns, almond croissants and, oh, everything!
Next, I rampaged through the shop, devouring chocolate fudge cakes, coconut pyramids, banoffee tarts, swiss rolls, bath buns, sponge cakes, and even the cardboard display wedding cakes.
The manager had gone for help, but I was so fast and so hungry that I had wolfed down the last strawberry gateaux and was just preparing for the grand finale, that raspberry pavlova, before she got back with the owner.
I was licking the crumbs off the bottom of the display cabinet when I heard a familiar voice.
“Eric! Lover boy! What are you doing?” It was Brenda.
“Er, I was hungry after, er, you know, Thursday night…” I stuttered.
“I’m not surprised,” she growled, enveloping me in her copious folds
of flesh even though she was still standing in the doorway. She turned to the baker and the manager. “It’s alright, boys, it’s only Eric. He’s a friend of mine.” She licked her lips. “A very good friend.”
Brenda had bought the cake shop with her winnings and it had served as her sole source of nutrition which was fairly obvious.
“Now, about Thursday night, Mr Chunky,” she giggled. “You really whetted my appetite.”
Lying, virtually naked in the display cabinet liberally coated with cream and jam, I didn’t need a crystal ball to guess what was coming. I knew precisely whose balls were going to play a prominent part in the next stage of Brenda’s life. My nightmare was coming true – without the lemon meringue pie.
“Close up shop and take the day off,” she said to her staff. She pulled the blinds down and squeezed into the cabinet with me. The final shred of my Calvin Kleins obeyed her whim and exposed me to all her physical manipulations. Her arms were like pillows wrapped around my neck and shoulders. Her legs were like punchbags on either side of my waist. Her lips, like ravenous, giant sea slugs, sucked the bodily fluids from every orifice in my body. And all the while, her pelvis was thumping up and down like the giant bellows of some cathedral organ. Our bodies made slip-slop sounds and there was often a loud fart when our sweaty bellies peeled apart. I was being flattened, in a cake shop, like pastry dough for a pie. I lay there patiently, counting each crack as my bones broke one, by one. As there are two hundred and six bones in the human body, I figured I could be there for some time.
DON’T MISS the FINAL part of Eric Preet’s Week of Sins tomorrow! Catch up with past sins on the “Ongoing Series” page for Eric Preet.