his intestines are full and are on the edge of explosion. the concocted vile, gastric juices, bitter essences and blended slime of cake slowly suffocated him as they crawl and embrace each surface of his stomach up to his esophagus. they move up to his mouth as if they have tiny black hands trying to break free from the clashing gates of teeth. their revolution inside his body is almost triumphant if not for his remaining strength of will to control some parts of his body. he can't puke. he is tied to his bed.
he wakes up.
he wiped his mouth as if erasing traces of bitterness from his slumber.
it's 3 in the morning.
time to bake a cake.
to start his ritual, he washes all of the bowls, the plates, the pans and of the essential surfaces that may touch the cake. the cake is sacred. it must always be clean, must always be perfect.
he is one of the few gifted people who own the baker’s hands. his hands are exceptionally moist and if triggered, they can turn warm and become the perfect tool to bake the perfect cake- firm but soft on the outside and then evenly moist and creamy on the inside.
baking is his second nature. he bakes, bakes and bakes despite the fact that he knows his cakes won’t be consumed as easy as he thinks.
he doesn’t bake for the whole town. he only bakes for one.
he bakes for that person who have intensified and elevated the warmth of his baker hands to the highest levels of baking warmth standards. he only bakes for that specific person who tasted, ate and ordered a lot of his cakes ever since he tasted it the first time.
that overflowing sense of appreciation and affection made his master baker hands party with so much warmth and power.
he only bakes for the one.
since he met the one, he became the baker who incessantly bakes day and night. his baking urges would cloak him most of the time; forcing him to bake like a maniac regardless of whatever time it is.
baking for the one yields a myriad of delightful experiences to his senses. the one eats them slowly, allowing his senses to make-love with the sensory pleasures brought by the cakes. he handles the cake like a delicate creature and then caresses it before he consumes it.
sometimes, they would bake the cakes together and eat and bask in all confectionary and baked goodness.
people who catch the wafting aroma of his cakes usually find themselves enticed under the spell of its charm. they know they can’t eat or have his cakes but their desire to have it never dies. once they smell it, they dream about it, think about it and crave it like water when you’re in the desert.
the one, on the other hand, cannot eat cakes all the time. the one also eats other things. as time passes by, the baker would keep baking and offering cakes to the one but it is usually refused. perhaps the cakes are too warm? too moist? too hard? too sweet? he can’t discern the problem. is it his method of baking? is it the time? yeah perhaps the time of baking. but where did the appetite go?
one day, the one arrived at the master baker’s
it was the master baker’s birthday.
the master baker offered the one the cake of the day.
the one said he’s already full and left.
the master baker, dazed and confused, went to bed early.
as he closed his eyes, visions of all the cakes he has baked for the one paraded themselves in front of him. he then found himself being surrounded by luscious towering walls of cakes.
the icing became arms, the sweet coating became fingers and in a few seconds, the master baker was a hostage of his cakes. the cakes opened his mouth and then piece by piece, forced their way inside his body. they melted into huge blobs of color, sugar, and flavors. they poured and made their way inside the baker’s body trying to fill him in. it’s his birthday and it seems like the cakes will have their own party inside his body. after more than an hour of inevitable pain and struggle, all of the cakes managed to inch their way inside the master baker.
he is now full.