The Baking Buns Club

The club had newly opened three months ago and was an absolute success. At least, that is what Janine's husband, Jefferson, heard her say on phone calls with her BFFs, whenever he eavesdropped. She was very excited about it and told almost everyone about it. Well, this information was shared only with their female friends. He saw a flyer some time ago, and men were not allowed in order to offer “the best possible experience", it said. Not even gays were admitted.

The Club had a lot of rules for their members, and Jefferson found them absolutely righteous, and he considered the Club just like a restaurant, having to comply with strict food laws. One of the rules was “No access when menstruating.” It felt harsh, but he understood. After all, he hoped one day his wife would bring home a little bun for him.

He found the monthly subscription very expensive, as he saw the first bill of a round figure of 500 USD, but he quickly realised Janine had stopped spending tonnes of money on other things and the heavy shopping was almost all together, except for perhaps Victoria's Secret and the gym. Quickly adding all the “new” costs together, it was probably saving him between 1000 and 1500 USD a month. She did buy healthier food, thus more expensive, for herself, but that was fine with him.

She was a looker, and he was really proud of having married her. Nobody believed him when he told his friends he was marrying Jennifer. He understood their sceptical reactions; he was a true bookkeeping poof, as you would say in England. Besides the age difference, Jennifer is young and full of life, 22 years old, and he is closing in on 50, and their physical appearances were day and night too. He had never worked out, preferring to read “old dusty books” as his wife would call them, and whenever he bored her, which was at least five times a week, she would go to the gym and “work her glutes", as she liked to call her beautiful, round butt.

No wonder the husbands of her best friends looked at her twice, especially when she was walking around wearing sports leggings, or even better, a tight-fitting summer dress. Of course, he saw, just like they did, her boobs perfectly outlined in those dresses and her butt swaying with each step, Jennifer being a true invitation from nature. But she was his, so let those guys watch how his bride walked around with her sexy body. Her blue eyes combined with her black hair could give any man weak knees. On top of that, watching her round ass and her slightly bigger boobies made her one hell of a sexy babe. Some friends were still sceptical about their marriage. Was it perhaps a green card thing?

He didn’t mind the lingerie purchases; quite the contrary, he looked forward to seeing her in it, but she already told him it was for special occasions only. Too bad he always had to use a condom since their wedding; Janine refused to use protection. “She was not ready for it," she always said, whenever her carefully started discussing the topic. Jefferson always had troubles staying hard with a rubber around his penis, so he preferred licking her pussy above the “normal” intercourse. That’s why he hoped the lingerie would help him stay hard. And maybe, one day, she would allow him bareback?

Husbands stayed away from this cooking place, not wanting to do anything with their wives’ hobby. Some did drive their young brides over there, but that's all. No love in the world could make those husbands go in there and spend their free time cooking. Besides that, men were not allowed.

Of course, those husbands pick up their best part again, their love of their lives, after a couple of hours, and the club must have many baking ovens in there, because those newlywed brides and wives always look worn out when they return, often their lipstick smeared and their make-up ruined.

Especially the soft moan your wife lets out each time she sits down on the car seat beside you, as if she hurt her butt or something similar. Probably a crammed-up place too. Not for her hubby! He would rather go fishing with that annoying guy from last year's BBQ than make some bread.

And it appears they do extensive tasting too, because often, after picking her up, driving home, she would gently caress her flat stomach and whisper sweet things to it. It almost looks as if she is in love with her tummy after a long session in the club.

The sweet tummy rub happened in the first month after having been fully accepted as a member. In order to become one, she had to go two times a week for a solid two months to “show her skills”, as the pamphlet had said. And the fee was still 500 USD. Among the duties for the applicants, you had to “clean up the ovens”, “assist by holding” and prepare the “cream pumps”. Other tasks involved “scrape the dough off the participant”, “hold the eggs” and “stop the leaking”, whatever that may be.

But his wife was truly happy with her newfound hobby, so he let her.

After the first month, she came out of the club highly excited, having received her first assignment. Sitting next to her husband, she immediately called her BFF, who had made it possible for her to apply for a membership in the first place, since memberships were only given through recommendations.

Janine's hands trembled as she clutched the embossed envelope, her French manicure tapping nervously against the heavy cardstock. The club's emblem—a whisk crossed with a wooden spoon—was pressed in gold leaf on the front, but inside held instructions far more decadent than any recipe she'd learned in her two months of "apprenticeship".

"Well?" Jefferson asked, his eyes flicking between the road and his wife's flushed face. "What did Madame assign you?"

She hesitated; her throat suddenly dry. The words felt heavy on her tongue, forbidden and delicious. "I... I have to source a very specific ingredient. For the holiday showcase."

"Oh?" He smiled, that familiar, trusting smile that made her chest tighten with guilty anticipation. "Something exotic?"

"You could say that," she breathed, folding the letter carefully and tucking it into her purse. Her phone buzzed immediately—BFF Madison sending a string of eggplant emojis and flame reactions. Girl, you got the Dark Chocolate assignment?! I'm so jealous!

The club's terminology was elaborate, she'd learnt. "Dark Chocolate" meant one thing and one thing only: a well-endowed Black man, with more than 10 inches of pure, raw cock. "Ganache" referred to the creamy finish. And "tempering"—well, that was what she would be doing, learning to handle heat that would make her home kitchen oven feel like a refrigerator.

Jefferson dropped her off at the usual time, kissing her cheek as she stepped onto the kerb in her yellow sundress—the club's suggested "uniform" for ingredient sourcing. "Have fun, honey! Learn something new!" He shouted after her, just as the wind lifted her dress and her whorish lingerie came into plain view. He husbands’ mouth fell open, as he saw the garterless black stockings and the matching, black transparent slip.

Ingredient sourcing meant that she should have an easily accessible cunt. Best not to wear panties at all, but crotchless lingerie were tolerated. And they made it clear to wear “stimulants”. Well, she did, like a good girl.

"Oh, I will," she promised, her voice breathier than intended.

The club's interior was different tonight. No DJ, no dancing. Just a luxurious lounge with velvet seating and soft jazz playing. In her assigned room, number 14, he was standing by the fireplace, wearing nothing but a grey towel that did absolutely nothing to conceal what hung beneath, was Marcus.

He was magnificent. The flyer hadn't exaggerated when it promised "premium imported ingredients". His dark skin gleamed in the warm light, muscular thighs that spoke of hours spent at the gym—her gym, she realised with a start. She'd seen him there, doing squats, watching her stretch. The memory made her knees weak.

"First assignment?" he asked, his voice like velvet over gravel.

Janine nodded, suddenly feeling very small, very white, and very, very excited. "I need to learn how to... handle dark chocolate. Properly. For the club's showcase."

Marcus let the towel fall.

Janine gasped. The image on the club's reference materials hadn't prepared her for the reality—a thick, heavy, dark phallus and already half-tempered, hanging heavily between his legs. It was beautiful, terrifying, and absolutely nothing like Jefferson's modest offering. This was a man's equipment, designed for deep fucking and thorough breeding.

"Come here, apprentice," Marcus instructed, stepping closer. "Let me teach you about proper hand placement."

She knelt—something she'd never done for her husband, who preferred her on top to "save his knees"—and reached out with trembling fingers. Her pale hand looked stark against his dark shaft as she wrapped her fingers around him, feeling the heat radiate from his skin. He was already swelling in her grip, growing harder and longer, the head flaring like a perfectly risen soufflé.

"Both hands," he coached. "This isn't a single-egg recipe."

She obeyed, using both hands to stroke him, marvelling at how her fingers couldn't quite meet around his girth. The weight of him was intoxicating, the way he responded to her touch with subtle hip movements, teaching her rhythm without words.

"Now," Marcus said, his hand moving to her hair, not pushing, just guiding. "Every good apprentice needs to taste her ingredients. Open up, sweetheart. Let's see if you can handle the full flavour profile."

Janine looked up at him, her blue eyes wide, lips parted. She thought of Jefferson waiting at home, probably reading one of his dusty books, completely unaware that his young wife was about to have her first taste of dark chocolate—and that once she did, she'd never be satisfied with plain vanilla again.

She opened her mouth and leaned forward, eager to begin her proper education.

---

Three hours later, Jefferson pulled up to the club's entrance, tapping his steering wheel impatiently. When Janine finally emerged, she moved differently—slower, gingerly, as if she'd been thoroughly worked over. Her yellow dress was slightly wrinkled, her hair mussed, and her lips... were her lips always that swollen?

"How was class?" he asked as she eased into the passenger seat, wincing slightly.

"Educational," she breathed, her hand drifting to her stomach, rubbing circles there with a dreamy, distant smile. "I learned so much about... depth. And filling techniques."

She didn't mention the taste still lingering on her tongue or the way Marcus had bent her over the club's marble countertop after she'd finished her oral examination, taking her from behind with a force and size that made her scream into a folded tea towel. She didn't mention how he'd filled her with his "ganache"—bare, hot, and so deep she'd felt it in her womb—or how she'd already made her next appointment.

"Same time next week?" Jefferson asked cheerfully.

"Actually," Janine said, checking her phone, where a new message glowed: Advanced Tempering - Group Session - 3 Instructors, "I think I'll need to come more often. The club has so much more to teach me."

She rubbed her tummy again, wondering if tonight's lesson might have already started a little black bun rising in her oven. After all, the club's speciality was cream-filled pastries—and Marcus had certainly been generous with his ingredients.

To be continued.