Carolina told me that if I met her at the diner at 3:45 a.m. and not a minute later, she’d show me how to make her secret cinnamon rolls. Everybody working for Big Ed knows that Carolina’s the highest paid cook in all of Mason County, and furthermore, everybody knows that Carolina’s getting ready to retire–her hips giving out on her from all that bending over the oven for years on end–and, truth be told, her elbows ache, too.
I know about her elbows because Carolina tells me things. Things like: she’s been bowling too much in the Tuesday night league and bowling, it turns out, will wear an old cook down. Things like: if I learn the secret to her secret cinnamon rolls, Big Ed’s sure to move me up to the breakfast shift and then all that Carolina Money’s gonna come my way. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna stay a lunch cook for long when the real money’s in bacon and eggs.
So I showed up in the dark at 3:37 and waited by the back door, where none of the sleeping truckers parked out front could see me (except sleeping truckers can’t see anyway on account of their eyes being closed and all). At first it was just me and the crickets chirping–a whole mess of ’em live at the edge of Baker’s farm. But soon I heard Carolina’s tires on the gravel lot. She clucked her tongue before saying, “Little Miss Mirabelle Landry. So you do have it in you to rise before the truckers.”
I didn’t say, “I’m here for the secret to your secret cinnamon rolls,” because that would be like saying, “I’m here for your money, Carolina. Now go retire.” My auntie raised me better than that. I stayed polite, as is my nature.
I followed her every order. We had to work quickly with the doors opening at 7am and all.
First step: wash my pussy. I was surprised, too.
But when Carolina told me to pull off my underwear and pull my skirt up around my hips and hop high on the counter so my butt suspended over the sink, she had not yet told me the secret of the secret rolls, so I wasn’t about to get prissy.
I had to sort of sit up there with my legs spread wide, bracing myself over the sink with both arms. First Carolina rubbed a squirt of dish soap between my legs. Then she turned on the warm water and pulled the dish sprayer out of its socket. She pointed the nozzle right at my clit. The sound from my mouth burst out with no plan–a messy noise like I was hurting–but oh my god bolts of starbursts tickled in my lower belly and popped like fireworks, only better. I laughed, too, and was afraid she’d say, “Hush, child,” even though I’m already eighteen, but she didn’t talk.
She moved the sprayer to my hole–the one for babies–and near abouts pushed it inside. At this, I wiggled and bucked. It felt better than my fingers ever had. She pointed the water back to my clit, so good my messy noise formed a word, “CAROLINA!”
“Girl, you gonna wake those truckers.”
She used her other hand to grip my bum cheeks, and kept the water from the nozzle spraying hard on my front–from my hole to my clit from my hole to my clit again and again, all the while I thrust my hips up and down, riding that nozzle to escape it and take it at the same time.
Was this what coming was? “CAROLINA, my cunt!”
She dropped the sprayer, slid three fingers into my hole, and locked her thumb hard over my clit. She squeezed my whole pussy like that, like I was a ball at the Mason Fast Lanes about ready to get thrown into a strike on a Tuesday night. Her fingertips curved into me and pressed my most inside self until I thought I would scream. She sounded mean when she said, “Don’t you dare say ‘cunt’ in this kitchen, Mirabelle Landry.”
My walls throbbed around her, squeezing uncontrollably, like my pussy had a mind of its own and wanted to pull milk from her knuckles. “Yes, ma’am.”
Without answering, she slid her hand from me and straight away began to knead the dough for her famous rolls.
And that is how I became the highest paid cook in all of Mason County.
If you enjoyed this, another installment from Ed’s Diner is here.
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