Miss Mirabelle’s Cornbread

“All due respect, Miss Mirabelle, I don’t buy it.”

“What don’t you buy?” I said.

Joey Hagan and I were sitting side by side on the back stoop of Big Ed’s Diner having a smoke after the breakfast rush. He still had a bushel of dirty dishes to wash, but we were accustomed to a break and a chat before lunch prep.

“You said Ms. Carolina went from kneading the dough with your–you know–juices to all of a sudden you’re the cook.” It was sweet seeing his embarrassment at mentioning my unmentionables: my wet pussy.

“That’s what happened. She retired. I took over.” I played it cool, even though I was happy he’d brought it up.

“Nah. Something’s missing.” He was staring straight ahead at the corn stalks of Baker’s Farm that butted up against Ed’s gravel parking lot. I swear he was blushing.

I’d been telling the story of how I came to be the cook at Ed’s Diner for a good ten years. Most people chuckled, heard it like a tall tale or a joke. No one had ever called bullshit on me. “Joey, it’d be a pretty boring yarn if I told every little detail.”

“I don’t think it’d be boring.” He mumbled this to the corn, so I ignored him.

Then he spoke louder, “How do you make the cinnamon rolls these days?”

I laughed and punched his shoulder. “You trying to get my  job?”

He laughed, too. When he smiled real genuine like that, he forgot to hide his crooked lower teeth. Bad teeth or not he was cute as a dollop of butter. Still lanky and humble despite his tall frame and giant hands. In the six months he’d been working there, since his high school graduation, it seemed like he followed me everywhere. I called him my little puppy behind his back.

Even if I did decide to pass on my secret–that I really do make the cinnamon rolls exactly the way Carolina taught me, with fingers wet from my own orgasmic vagina–he couldn’t take it. He hadn’t even started pretending to be a man yet, hardly said two words to anyone ever ‘cept me ’cause we were trapped in the kitchen together for hours each morning.

Things had gotten boring around the diner lately, though. Baking by myself wasn’t as much fun as it was in the early years. My pussy was raw from sheer milking. The cinnamon rolls sold out every day. Truckers drove miles off the main interstate just to get their fill of breakfast at Big Ed’s. I couldn’t remember the last time I let myself fuck for the joy of it. Maybe it was time to play a little. I took the last drag of my cigarette and dropped it in my coffee cup, pondering how much I dare show Joey, just for kicks.

I leaned back, put my hands about a foot behind me and rested on straight arms. Then I arched my back, letting my boobs point to the white November clouds. “I can’t say anymore about the cinnamon rolls beyond Carolina’s recipe. But I could use your help with the cornbread tomorrow.”

He straightened his back and coughed without looking at me or speaking. This was going to be harder than I thought. Keeping my feet planted on the lower step, I let my knees fall open. My aproned skirt pulled an inch higher up my thighs.

“Are the ears husked?” I kept my voice all business, letting my posture clue him in.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If I let you help me, this is going to have to be a secret.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His apron strained at the crotch. I wanted to reach over and rub him there. Instead, I put my hand under my skirt and pressed my vulva through my underwear. He turned his head slightly towards me, looking at me from the corner of his eye.

“Meet me here at 3:45 a.m.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t fucking call me ma’am ever again.”


Early morning baking under my domain is done pantless, that’s no myth, but the hardest part was keeping Joey Hagan’s semen out of the cornbread batter. Once he relaxed (and that took a while), the mere sight of my round bum cheeks was enough to get him spurting.

When he first arrived, I unbuttoned the blouse of my uniform and let my titties squeeze out the top. My bare nipples poked forward like raspberries he was too timid to look at. Even when I washed my pussy over the sink (just like Carolina had done when I was his age), he gazed only at my eyebrows. I didn’t ask him to touch me yet, reckoned doing so might send him running back off into the dark of morning.

The most important step was prepping the corn. I’d planned to bend over the work table and have him push each cob into my vagina pretty quickly: in and out and next and next. We had thirty ears to do and I had other intentions for us after that. There was buttermilk and honey to season–gallons of creamy coolness to pour over my tender vulva. But the corn came first.

Turns out as soon as he figured what I had in mind, the poor boy froze up. He seemed to have never interacted with a half-naked woman in his life. A biology lesson was in order. I hiked my skirt up, got on the work table and spread my legs. Used both hands to pull my labia open. It felt good, the crisp air on my open rim. I wanted him to lick me; god I wanted that tongue of his to slide straight up my slit. Instead he stepped backwards. Only his eyes put out: fixed hard on my hole. That gave me hope.

“This is my vagina. Don’t try anywhere else.” I didn’t rock back and separate my ass cheeks, best he not think about that yet. I told him to come stand closer while I pushed the head of a corncob in past my labia. “See?”

“Yes, m–.”

“Joey. Do you think you can use your saliva to wettin me up?” I put the corn down and went back to holding my lips open, knees high and wide.

“Ma’am?” He couldn’t help himself from being polite.

“This whole process is going be much less painful for me if,” yes, guilt him into it, “you, you know, comfort my skin.” I ran my index finger around the inner-most flesh of my red labia. “Here.”

And that’s when he shot his first wad. Semen squirted at the buttons holding my uniform closed over my belly. We still had an hour before any customers would arrive. I changed into a clean outfit while he washed up.

Back on the work table, legs spread, I took his right hand and wrapped it around a fresh corncob. Keeping my hand on his, I positioned the tip of the kernelly phallus again at my vagina’s opening, muscles clenching, craving. When he gave the husk a shy push and a toothy smile, I knew it was the start of a good day.



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