Jail Baked Goods


Written by Septia.


The streets of Slieht laid bear under the waning moon's gaze. Olzhas kicked a pebble through the dust of the street – their only travel companion, until they too were left behind in the street-soot. The late teen let out a sigh, coming to a stop in their lonesome, nightly wander. A glance over his shoulder. Hesitance. -Snnf- Then, a sniff, a warm aroma nearby. Above the boarded-up facade hangs a sign: Cast-dough Bakery. And the smell, leading in through a shutter, left ajar. 


The wooden frame dragged against Olzhas's shirt as he wormed his way into the bakery. Right below the window were felt covered racks with broad lumps hidden underneath, all of it positioned so the smell of the baked goods would fan out through the window during the day. His guess being it wasn’t intended to attract thieves at night. Of course, thief was a bit of a strong word to describe himself.

Shuffling out into the wide hallway parallel to the shelves, he peeked under a cloth. Bread, pale white loaves, golden crisps, hearty oaken slabs. All the goods that didn't sell that day. Was there really anyone who would miss them? Even just one or two? 
	-Snnf- -Snnf- That smell, the sweetness hanging in the air, muted, yet the inviting aroma of sugar and cardamom brought his attention upwards. Wall shelves, high above, with rows of packaged parcels. Could it be… Olzhas licked his lips, looking around the bare hall. There were no chairs or stools, or even ladders to reach it. His diminiature stature back to haunt him once again. Though, being short had its advantages.

With nimble steps he manoeuvred around the lumps on the rack, making his way up towards the sweet smelling shelf. Standing up on the tips of his toes he could just about reach it. Grubby fingers snatched up a package, unfolding the wax paper. It was a Cardamon Bulle. The sweet swirl of dough in a bun a little light in the dusky bakery. Of course, pastries crammed with sugar lasted longer than bread, with just a bit more care taken for them. He stuffed the bun right into his face, gnawing feverishly into the plush sweet's meat. 
	“Mmfn,” he mumbled with his mouth full.

-Crrrtc- The shelf creaked under his weight. Olzhas stumbled, and caught himself on the cusp jutting out underneath the shelf, though the sudden momentum -Kjjrth- he bent the jag. Under the weight of the opportunistic pilferer… it dislodged. 

-Ctlpth- The shelf came undone, dropping down onto his chest for an avalanche of wrapped up pastries to tumble into his arms. Pelted in pastries he tumbled backwards, falling onto the rack -Ctthhd-Dwllffph- where a number of bread lumps cushioned his fall and crumpled under his weight -Chhhrrddw-Ptfffd-. 
	“Pahha, haa… ha…” he panted, wiggled in place, wiping his face with the wax paper. Taking a few breaths to steady himself, check. Arms: fine. Legs: fine. Back: a bit stiff, but fine. 

-KklltDtwwnd- A resounding thud spread shivers down his spine. The shadows shifting from further into the bakery. 

He scrambled up, trampling another loaf as he hurried for the open shutter, throwing himself over the railing. -Ctthhdhwff- Before a grasp caught him by the scruff of his shirt, reeling his shrieking form back from the windowsill. A moment later the shutter sealed shut. 
	Olzhas was hoisted up into the air, swept off his feet, hoisted higher, higher…, staring below as the distance to the ground elongated. His eyes catching onto the bulwark of black iron spread out before him. Slimming to a square compartment, and then shrinking to a pearlescent ceramic face, staring back into him. 

“Músthéof…” it spoke to him. 
	“W-what? Y-you got it wrong.” Then he was swung backwards as some distance was made between them, staring up to see the long gray arm of metal holding him.
	“You, are, a músthéof,” she accused the thieving mouse, “look what you did to brod.” They gestured over the clutter of bread and pastry packets and mangled dough humps. At this distance, he got a better view of her. She had smooth coils of iron hair around the ceramic countenance, with a boxy compartment for a chest and below, a bloated sphere of a pot-belly stove, a barred door over the feed hatch. The spacious hall made sense as she shuffled through it on their three curving legs. 

“It was an accident, just let me go. It does not matter, I did not break anything important, and my name's not moustheor.” 
	She turned to face him. “What, then?” 
	“Huh?” 

She drew him close, placing her other palm to her chest. “Cofn,” she said, revolving her hand back in a gesture towards him, “you are?”
	“…Olzhas…,” he mumbled. 

“Ooaah…” Cofn gasped, staring, and brought him up to her face. A digit reaching out, and brushing under his lip, wiping up crumbs of bread and cardamom dust. “Your name, it not lie. Théof, gesotig théof of broda and foda.” 

“Shut up, who cares about a little bread either way?” 
	A huff of smog puffed out behind Cofn's back -Pfhooovhf-. “More than théof, you a rúte théof.” The oventaur announced as she hauled him up, and thwacked onto her bulbous midsection. 

-Klnnglk- Olzhas clanked into the potbelly iron, his form hugging down the arch of the curved surface. “Ouguh. What are you'd doing? Let me go.” 
	“Gesotig Théof,” she spoke in with a tone that sprouted chills through his back,  “will need punish.” She hooked her fingers around his pants and peeling a pair of pale cheeks free, the other hand pinning him in place as the cool breeze brushed past his banked backside.

“W-wait, you aren't gonna-, ok stop it.” He saw her revving up – the slender, iron palm reaching all the way to the roof. 
	“W-wait, s-s-stop,” he stammered. 
	It moved. 
	“Wait ple-.” 
	-Wttttchwwp-. That moment stretched on longer the more he looked at it, Cofn's arm swung down in a wide arc through the air, lining up right to his buttocks. And delivering the force of the swing in one echoing clap -Twwcckkph-.
	“Gnn-ygaa, aaahh… S-stop,” he squealed as she raised her am again. 
	It fell upon him like a judge's cudgel, striking down across both his cheeks -Twwckkcht- overlapping with the fist strike and revving up the ache through his hind. 

“Gnnghaya ahahg.” He cried out. Feeling Cofn begin to move along with him. The next swat came down on his left cheek -Twwwmmtpthp- -Kdnnnng- and the force of the smack spiked through his body, down into the iron he laid arched over, the reverberations of the strike echoing in the empty chamber undeneath him, hearing the the hit as his haunched butt began to throb in an aching rhythm with the echo. 
	Cofn scraped up crumbs and crumpled bread into a basket between slaps, cleaning up after his escapades. -Twwcllpthp- -Dndnghs- the chime of her body ringing with each slap etching itself into the man’s mind… 
	
-Chhtwwggch- The hefty claps against his rump clattering like a pig tripping, and about as much force spiked up this spine and tissue with each beating. -Whhthhwck- Cold metal colliding into his ache seared cheeks, a momentary cool before the overlapping impact seared up, blooming through his buns. “Mfngnhaa. Gfnngns,” he cried and strained, flailing his arms in a primal outlet of the pain digging its roots through his pudgy bear bottom. Feeling the wave of trembles -Ccchhtwwp- as the palm walloped him.

“You a naughty, naughty théof. You must learn, this.” -Cllpttwch- She slammed her palm back into his right cheek, wherever an area she had mostly left alone, and it elicited a tremor though the thief on top of her. 
	“Gnnyyraag,” he'd scream out as she shuffled back deeper into their bakery. -Whhtchk- Spanking him in rhythm with her locomotion, all her middle swung and swayed under the three-legged gait, -Ttwwclphp- he was struck with another ham rippling smack. 
	
“To xert all that broda for youself, take your punishment,” she huffed. Then hoisted him up high with a swing of her frame only to -Twwcllptch- slap it back down, letting the meaty thwack ripple out as she pendulumed her body to follow the arch of the slap. 
	“Gnnhgyya… huhgs…” Olzhas wheezed and groaned, the muster of his cries dampened under her distributed punishment. 

“Gryre, gryre boy…” she mumbled before the next -Thwhckp- swat, leaving a silhouette of her burgundy pink in the shape of her fingers over his rear. -Kllrtwwwhp- Another clap, but she let her palm linger, a soft squeeze eeking out a grovel from the thief, pinching into the blubber. Warm, supple, compared to the first few hits. Cofn hoisted over the carcasses of bread pastries into a wide bowl. It could dry and be used for breadcrumbs, a waste of fine bread, though it could still have some use… -Twptghps- The next slap lingered as well, groping into the rosy flesh, kneading the tender, blushing haunches. -Cttwpglp- Another clap. 

“Mfn… ghhyu…” His cries were fainter now, and attempting to hold in the sniffling. The tears were muffled, reserved… Tamed. It soothed her, gave her the leverage to raise her palm again. 
	“Such naughty théof needs understanding, learn, respect ones and foda,” she proclaimed with a muse to her tone, as the palm drummed back into his hips. The sore meat rippling under the strike: tender. She waited, listened to his sniffles, listened to him weeping over his restitution. Then came down upon him again. A -Cllrlpwthp- faint jitter surging up through his body as he laid there, at first a wild beast fighting against her, and now sloughed over her midsection and flopping like a limp fish dredged up from a slimy river. 

“Gesotig -Ttwwmp-, lil’ -Twwmwpg-, théof -Thhwwmclcpth-,” she mused as the thief who had deigned to wreck her storefront, laid tamed and groaning at her mercy. “Serves you well,” she hummed. 


~ 1 ~


Olzhas panted, catching his breath, feeling his heart beating as fast as his ass was pulsing: both bundles of red tissue throbbing under pressure and heat… He gnawed on his lip, groaning as the tremors still ruffled though him. Through the ache he peeked up. He saw the golem busy. Her arms sorting through ingredients, measuring up liquids, opening the feed hatch on her abdomen to pour in a bag of flour. 
	“Please, could I just go?” 
	“Swot broda théof want want mercy? Has he learned?” 
	“P-please I can not, take it, it hurts, I don't want the pastries anymore.” 
	Cofn hoisted him up with one arm, the towering oven drinking down a cup of oil, lubricating her throat as the battered boy hung in front of her. 

“A shame. To see good foda go,” she lamented and pinched his cheeks together. “You have been such, a théohece, such bother, made so much work gesotig to clear.” She seated him on the floured counter ahead of her. This made him whinge as his battered meat cushions were now tasked with supporting his entire bodyweight, a sore surge through his spine. Olhaz squirmed, but was held in place by Cofn still clutching the scruff of his back. 
	“Your buns turned broda to crumbs… But, sure you crumbs can be turned to broda.” 
	He swallowed. “H-huh?” 
	“Your théoh got so tender,” she said and inched his thigh, “théof théoh make juicy brod~,” She mused with a delighted thrill to her voice. And schooched him forwards. 

Olzhas watched as she unlatched the gate to her middle, and let the door hang open as his feet careened straight into the embrace of the oven's bloated middle.  -Cllllrsshlp- His feet met with a sleek, oil slick surface of polymer, a malleable metal lubricated with re-greased oils to leave them sinking into the depths in a mere moment. 

“W-wait, wait, what, s-stop p-please,” he wheezed out between grunts of his tender cheeks scotching over the counter and grinding against the edge of the counter. Cofn daintily scooped him over the edge and let the man's body slot down into their wide open midsection -Chhtltpghht-. In a moment: calves, knees, vanished; thighs feeding through the squared pit into the enveloping embrace of contracting tyflon. 

“S-stop, w-athat are youauah-.” He tried to steady his hands at the counter, but Cofn scooched up, stretching her legs straight and hoisted her whole frame up, spooling his form straight up as gravity would seal his fate. Without support the sweep scooping him up and leaving him sinking into the pot-bellied maw of the oventaur. -Chrhrlpth- -Chhrrllpfht- The crinkling squeal of the surface warping around his hips, clamping around his rear and grinding along his abdomen, draining down the reared up oven's embrace. 
	“Please, I-i am s-sorry, l-let me g-go.” 

Cofn planted her palm over his face. “A naughty théof, makes for good foda,” she mused with such a sweet tone it turned venom in his hears. 
	“W-wait-. Fmpfght-.” He was muffled as the force of her palm -Clwlpththtspth- scoffed him downwards, -Cllrpwthth- A crinkling candace of grinding oils and callous metal warping around him as his chest was engulfed past the oven's gape, arms flailing to grasp a clasp, -clltph- fingers hooking onto the metal frame. 

“Mmhm mmfmm,” Cofn hummed, one palm weighing down on his head slowly -Clslpth- sinking into the chute, whilst the other pried up the grip of his fingers, one, at, a, time. 
	“P-pelase-fmfpgght-.” Another cry left unanswered as the last fingers slipped -Cllpthgpsh- and he sunk into the kneading embrace of her body. “Ffmspaghgmsph,” he wheezed and mumbled over the metal clutching around him. Whilst Cofn shut the hatch after him. 

“Mmfmfpg.” Fingers reached up, clasping at the bars of the feed hatch door. Cofn saw this, but gave no reaction. The oil from the walls made the his fingers slippery, and after a few more attempts… -Clslpthtah- they lost their grip, the face framed in the aperture of the closing polymer, drawn into the ovens' depths. 


-Crkrfrrllgpsh- The squelchy grind of wading through a marshland echoed in the breathing chamber around him. His legs mired in a concoction of flour and liquid, drawing him further and further back into the abyss as he fought against the tides of grime and the ushering, kneading walls working into him. Engulfing him into the sludge of the rising, doughy marsh. 
	“P-please, I-I am sorry o-ok. L-let me out, I do not want to be bread.” 

“Hoo, but such good brod you will make.” Cofn ensured from outside, measuring spices to complement her newest ingredients, whilst her body worked him down into batter. The cocktail of spices and powders ferried down her neck to disperse over the sludge surrounding him. 
	“There will be no gesotig théof left, baked smooth, swot batch, clean of tweona,” she hummed.

Cofn swayed her frame to and fro in each step, her body a pendulum full of a thrashing thief, stirring up the ingredients quite well as her body contracted and ground into his body. Back and forth, back and forth she walked, the rhythm breaching the thief within. Along each struggle and kick the batter only toughened, growing pliant and elastic whilst his reserves dwindled, and his frame only grew more macerated. Back and forth, to and fro. The dough cocooned him, engulfed every stretch of his body, fighting against it only enhanced its grip. Bulges of dough forming around his limbs, withdrawn in the rubbery silk of his pupa. To and fro -Chrpgh- -Cgllprhs- the sway of her hips cradling his body.

Lulling his dampened sense and caged body into the sweet embrace of cardamom and rustic spices. Smelled so sweet… he was tied. The gentle rhythm from the wobble of her body around him, such a comforting embrace after everything he had been through. Despite what it meant, submitting to her… He couldn't help but, letting go. The dough felt like resting in a cloud. A cloud that muffled everything in the world, but the sway of the oven tomb. 


Cofn patted her abdomen -Kplg- -Kkbggb- “Good théof, you will not be a théoece for much long,” she mused, reached down to her  spin draft and fiddling with the knob to invite a fanning breeze, and heat up the oven's confines. Starting to bake up a batch to replace that which had been squandered.


~ 2 ~


“Mmmf… good théof, for such small, feel like made lots of foda,” Cofn hummed as the first streaks of morning begun to crest over the town. She squatted down over a boakwood tray and let herself relax. 

-Crhrlstp- A crinkle of oils and lard drooled out through the broad tyflon buns at her exit hatch. -Clrlpthhc- Gradually the cheeks bent, warping out along a pressure from within. 
	“Mmm oo, much more foda than as mere gesotic théof,” she mused as her cheeks bloomed wide. The pliant metal unveiling a crust, a buoyant souffle with an auburn bottom, distending her cheeks circular as it crept out along with a dripple of lard. The buns of such smooth, lissome polymer were budged aside for every cent of the bread, and yet even their light touch was enough to press into the supple, pillowy loaf gradually extending from the oven's backend. -Chrlrlpsthht-. -Clslptth- The pastry spread out from her cheeks, a broad cylinder with the girth of a watermelon spooling and sloughing through. Eeking ever closer to the tray until… -Cttlwlpghh- The bottom met with the wood, a dampened thud of souffle. 

“Haa… See, much better behaviour,” Cofn mused. -Fpfhoo- clear, white smog bellowed out through her exhaust hatch as the sweet bread sloughed out, and billowed free from her buns. -Cllssppdfth- -Pwllphorth-. Her cheeks clacked off of the tip of the pudgy cylinder with the slack of a meaty swat, letting the towering bread balance on the tray below her.
	A glance over her back let her admire the dusted cocoa hued texture, with cracks and patches of a yellowed birch seaming beneath the surface, the tall loaf wobbling as it settled, as if its undulating insides were just waiting to bolster out broad and fluffy. At the bread’s crown braids of  bronze dough formed in a looping pattern. Bright and dark hues on the peak etched in a vague image of a pair of steaming buns. 

Cofn -Snnfff- inhaled the inviting aroma of toasty cardamom wafting from the upright bale of sweetbread, and sighed in satisfaction. 
	“A thorn in the side no longer, a théoece no more. A sweot, swot brodd you become, deora,” she mused and hoisted her trophy of paska bread up onto the baking table, brushing its sides to hear the plush pastry ripple under its own weight. Before she shuffled back she toted out to the front of the bakery. 

Soon it was time to open the doors and decorate the street with her baked goods. And the crowning trophy among them was this bad boy of a baked good. But before then, she had the rest of the batch to deal with. Feeling a whole span of lesser paska bread lingering in the cusp of her oven. 


~ Epilogue ~


Today's batch laid finished. Still steaming. Rows of paska bread – each big enough for a handful – were spread out before her. Thinking back, these looked, so small. Compared to… back then. It had been so big… but… She slouched. 

A knock at the door proceeded with Kamyn barging into the kitchen. “Cofn, been waiting on the batch a bit long now, did something happ…en?” she said, seeing the oven just staring at the batch. The beetletaur came up to pat Cofn's back. “Looks good.” 
	“Uha?” Cofn mumbled. 
	“Any issues today?” 
	Cofn shook her head. 
	“That's good. You're doing good work.” 
	Cofn turned her head. “Yes.” 
	She nodded, and took a step back. “I can take ‘em out for ya.” 
	Cofn paused. Then grabbed the tray. 
	“You got it, I getcha. Come out when you're ready,” she said and shuffled out the door. 

Cofn sighed. Then carried the tray. All the while, humming a melody under her breath. “~Lustum lyg, lustum lyg. Swoot, swoot, tweona. Lustum lygen, lustum lyg, swoot, swoot, tweona.~”