Kuchen Wunsch

A version of this piece was originally written for Exhibit A when he was running a marathon and asked for stories about running and sex. I raced last weekend and I recently had an amazing piece of cake, so this story came back to my mind. He enthusiastically encouraged me to share it.

In Munich it isn’t easy to find a meal that’s healthy rather than heavy but for my last meal before the marathon I needed to eat reasonably light. I found a café open early for dinner and explained that I simply wanted grilled chicken and a green salad. Of course it was served with fried potatoes on the side. I’m not one to deny myself pleasures so I took a few bites, salty and greasy and magnificent, before returning to my plain chicken and large glass of water. I wanted a beer. The weather was perfect for sitting all night in a biergarten but it would have to wait for tomorrow. Okay, so sometimes I do deny myself pleasures, at least temporarily.

The waiter cleared my plates. Behind him appeared a buxom young woman holding a dessert tray. So much powdered sugar and sculpted chocolate it held that fairy tale enchantment that Bavaria oozes with.

Haben Sie einen Kuchen Wunsch?” Her large blue eyes begged me to take a piece of cake, and they begged for something more from me. Kuchen Wunsch, cake wish. The phrasing charmed me almost as much as her blushing pink cheeks. I did have a wish to take her back to my hotel and see just how flushed I could make those cheeks but it was one of those pleasures that would have to wait. I couldn’t expend the energy so close to the race.

My eyes lingered on the bit of cleavage peeking from her scoop-neck blouse before settling on her tray of sweets. If I wasn’t going to fuck her, I would definitely be having a piece of cake. I chose a kirschtorte, black forest.

Her thumb slipped as she handed me the plate, sliding through the top layer of cherry syrup and cream. She made to draw back and apologize but I placed my fingertips on the back of her hand. Her eyes encouraged me. I raised her thumb to my lips and kissed her offered confection, licking the cream from my lips. Suddenly shy, she drew her hand back and I let her. More than anything else that little gesture of pulling away made me so hard. I planned to enjoy my cake then go back to my hotel room and think of her.

After the last bite, I ran my finger across the place through the syrup and cream then licked it. I wanted to smell like the cake, and like her. I wanted to smell the sticky sweetness on myself later.

Alone in my room, I turned off all the lights, undressed, and sank into the soft, thick comforter. I held my fingers to my nose and inhaled the almost sickly sweet scent of cream and chocolate. I moved my hand to my hard cock, imagining her large blue eyes watching me and her cheeks blushing deeper with every stroke I took. When I came, I imagined myself drizzling cum over her breasts and the dessert tray, like icing.


I’d been going along at a nice pace, stopping for water every few miles. I felt like I would finish with no problem, maybe even a personal record. The weather was perfect. The crowd was jubilant. I felt confident in my training and in my choice of dinner and activity the previous night, especially the cake.

In a race as long as a marathon, I always start to get hungry around the halfway point. I considered stopping for one of my gels. I was used to them but for some reason today they seemed so unappetizing. When the hunger became strong enough that I had no choice, though, I paused to fish one out of my shorts pocket.

In that moment I smelled cake. I glanced up to see I’d stopped in front of a patisserie and several of the spectators held sweet confections in their hands. It seemed a cruel joke, a bakery at this point along the marathon route. The sweet scent of kirschtorte reached me. My dick twitch. I saw her. The woman who’d granted my cake wish stood in the crowd, eating the kirschtorte, a bit of cream smeared across her lips. She saw me and smiled. Suddenly my dick became hard and I could think of nothing else but wanting those cream-smeared lips around my cock.

Discipline. I ran another couple miles, my dick surprisingly hard for the amount of exertion I was using the rest of my body for. When I arrived at a bank of portable toilets, I ducked into one. I raised my hand to my face. I hadn’t showered that morning so my fingers still smelled slightly of the sugar and my cum from last night, erasing the odor of the urine and shit from the marathoners that had already used that toilet. I closed my eyes and again I thought of her large eyes and blushing cheeks, this time with the bit of cream on her lips, imagining them sucking me hard, then me licking the sweet cream and cum off of them. When I came I imagined coming over her breasts then dusting them with powdered sugar and licking them clean.

I continued on with the race, determined to find that café again fulfill all my Kuchen Wunsch that evening.

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Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

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