“Gay Cake” row rumbles on! The headline was plastered over half the front page of the Belfast Telegraph.

I drop the newspaper onto the counter along with the morning post. The Asher’s bakery story is still the main talking point. I scan the first paragraph, shaking my head that people in the 21st century would refuse to make a cake with the icing saying “Supporting Gay marriage” as it is against their religion.

I scroll through my phone, reading the newspaper’s Twitter feed as I boil the kettle for a cup of tea before beginning work. There seems to be a lot of gay people looking for cakes I think to myself as I read the comments in support of the man who was told he couldn’t have his cake. I look up at my shop sign and then pick up the phone and take a picture.

I retweet the” gay cake” story with a picture of my shop and the message “Patti’s Cakes can bake you a cake, gay, straight or anywhere in between.”

By the time I cleaned down the worktops that evening, I had seventeen orders for designer cakes with a gay or Pride twist.

I was just putting the mixer back together when the shop bell rang. I walk out, drying my hands to see a young woman standing looking around the shop. She was admiring the photos of previous cakes I had been commissioned for. I make cake sculptures really. A sponge cake leaning tower of Pisa, a chocolate ganache set of books or, and this photo wasn’t on the wall, a Swiss roll cock and balls.

She nervously turns, already blushing before she even starts to speak.

“Are you Patti?”

“Yes. Well, I’m Patricia, but it seemed too good a sales gimmick to miss.”

“I saw your tweet. You timed that rather well. I love your work.”

She looked around the walls again, before turning back to me. She was cute and really attractive. She looked like she had come from work. I could see glimpses of skirt and blouse under her coat. She was elegant, with long blonde hair. Her blue eyes sparkled as she looked at me.

“Do you work from photographs or real life?” She paused. “How realistic can you be?”

“I guess that depends.” I walk over to some of the pictures. I was intrigued by what she wanted.

“Something like the Leaning Tower of Pisa was from a photograph. But this one,” I pointed to a wedding cake with a marzipan couple; the bride in her gown and the groom in a football strip. “This one was done from a mixture of photographs and I modelled the bride and groom’s faces from life.”

“I need you to make me a cake,” she blurts out, “but it has to be a perfect likeness.”

I smile, wondering what sort of cake she would want that would cause her such embarrassment.

“Come into the kitchen,” I suggest as I lock the door and turn the sign round to CLOSED.

I offer her a seat while I boil the kettle to make a pot of tea. As the kettle boils, I look at her again. She had taken her coat off and I can see her figure properly. While she is slim, her boobs are ample and she carries them well, the blouse stretched tight across her chest.

As `I place the mug of tea on the table, along with milk carton and sugar bowl, I sit down opposite and begin.

“What sort of cake are you looking for?” I ask gently, opening my notebook and getting ready to take notes.

“I want a perfect copy of my boobs.” She states, looking up at me, unsure how I’d respond.

“When you say perfect, as in size?”

“Size, colour, texture of nipples, I want an edible pair of my tits.”

She sits, looking at me. She’s smiling, but it isn’t a joking smile. This girl is perfectly serious.

I smile back as my mind races. Practically it isn’t a problem. I can sculpt a cake into any shape, nipple texture probably marshmallows and colour was just a case of matching her skin tone. It was just the whole perfect sized thing.

“Well?” she enquires?

“Yes I can do it, but I will have to take some measurements etc.”

“Of course,” she replies, standing up and beginning to unbutton her blouse.

As I watch this girl begin to undress, I realise I don’t even know her name. The thought of her revealing herself to me begins to excite me. I couldn’t have explained why it excited me. I’d never really been attracted to women, beyond an appreciation of a good-looking girl’s beauty and yet I had found this girl attractive from the moment she entered my shop. Now, I sit transfixed, pencil in hand, staring at her as she unveils herself, the wait between buttons seems to go on forever.

She removes her blouse and stands in a blue polka dot bra. She suddenly seems unsure, as if she realises I’m not who she thought I was. Then with a deep breath, she reaches behind and unclasps the strap. I watch as the breasts drop by the tiniest amount as their support is removed. This girl has young firm boobs. As the material slips away, I can see the twin globes of the most perfect pair of breasts I had ever seen. The skin is flawless. A smooth expanse of white is topped by two glorious pink nipples. I watch them hardening slightly in the cool air.

She stands, hands on hips, looking at me. One eyebrow raised, as if in defiance.

I stand and slowly approach. I can feel my hips begin to sway as I move, cat-like towards her. My hand reaches out to caress her flesh, to feel the curve of the twin globes. As I slide my finger over her nipple, I whisper, almost breathlessly,

“Do you want the nipples hard or soft?”

She closes her eyes and sighs. Her nipple responds to my touch. I can feel it grow as I run my fingertip over the areola. The nub growing, the pinkness flushed as I press my finger and thumb against it, feeling the texture. She groans as I roll it.

My hands move over the breasts, feeling the fullness, their weight. I crouch down to take a closer look. My eyes moving over the nipples, my breath held as I look. But then, inextricably, my mouth is drawn to it. Without thinking, my mouth opens and I take her nipple into my mouth. My tongue circling the nipple, swirling over it as my lips close around it, suckling. Feeling the heat of her in my mouth.

I hear her groan in the distance as my teeth, covered by my lips, rub against her. I suckle her as my hand strokes and caresses her other breast. I move my mouth to her other breast. Switching from one to the other at will, sucking her, tasting her as she stands in my kitchen, offering herself to me.

Almost subconsciously, I feel my hands drop to her waist, holding her hips as I move my mouth from nipple to nipple. My fingertips sliding inside the waistband of her skirt, it is the work of only a moment for her skirt to unzip and fall in a crumpled heap around her ankles.

Her panties match. That much enters my addled brain as my hands reach round to squeeze her ass cheeks. My thumbs stroking her hipbones, caressing her as my mouth worships her breasts.

The scent of her rises to my nose, mixing in with the lingering scents of cooking and cakes, I can smell her. As her hand moves to caress my hair and the back of my head, I move my mouth downward, kissing over her stomach and down over the triangle of damp cotton.

On my knees, my mouth roams over the spotted landscape, my tongue probing, licking her, tasting her through the damp cotton. Nothing is ever as thrilling as the first taste. That exploration, the first time her flavours explode on my tongue, setting off that chain reaction that ripples through me, knowing my own knickers are getting damp.

I bend my head and lick, tracing a line along her covered slit. Her breathing has changed. I can hear her pant above me. My hands slide up and down the backs of her thighs, my fingers moving over her knickers, gripping them, pulling the material away from her, watching it peel slowly from her, her juices glistening, smeared over the gusset of her knickers as I slide them down her legs.

I lift my head from her stained knickers to look at her. The trimmed triangle of soft blonde curls pointing like an arrow to her sex. I press my nose to her, inhaling the scent that saturates her mound.

I guide her to sit on the chair behind her. As she settles into the chair, her legs opening as easily as if I’d whispered the password, “Open Sesame.”

Her sex glistens. I can see her lips are already slick with her juices. My thumbs open her, revealing her folds as the tip of my tongue traces a line up and around. Then I lick her slowly, the flat of my tongue dragged along her from perineum all the way up to her clit. I feel her shudder. I can sense her back arching as she writhes on the chair above me.

My tongue teases her clit, circling, ever decreasing circles getting closer and closer, the intensity of her whimpers and moans matching the speed at which I go close and drift away. Just when I think she is going to snap, I flick the tip of my tongue over her clit. The jolt it produces lifts her ass off the chair.

I roll my tongue into a tube and push it inside her, tasting her juices from the source. My lips clamped around her, my nose rubbing over her clit as I move my head from side to side.

Her breathing is ragged now, little pants, yelps and groans emanating from above me. I can feel my nose rubbing against her curls as my tongue fucks her. Her juices oozing out of her and over my face and chin.

I move my mouth to her clit, my lips softly sucking her clit into me, tongue licking the tip as my lips wrap around the base. My middle finger curls as it enters her. Her wet velvet walls gripping it as it is pushed inside. My fingertip pressing on her spot inside, pressing into the soft spongy spot that drives girls wild.

Her thighs clamp around her head, Her hips moving in time with the suckling of my mouth on her clit. Her breathing ragged, panting, a noise coming from her, a low guttural wailing that rises in pitch and intensity as I suck her harder, two fingers now buried deep inside her. Her hips bounce on the chair, sliding over the hard wooden surface as her juices smear beneath her. A puddle is forming in the well of the chair.

I glance up. Her head is thrown back, her nipples are rock hard, pointing towards the sky as she lies back in the chair. Her hand gripping my hair as she pulls me deeper into her, her thighs clamped around my head. As her clit throbs in my mouth and my fingers move in and out of her, I can feel it coming.

I can feel the muscles rippling, sucking my fingers in deeper, the texture and consistency of the juices dripping out of her changing. As her fingers tighten, almost pulling my hair out by the roots, her back aches and she screams.

The juices explode out of her, my mouth open, covering her, trying to drink her as she covers my face and chin. I lap at her, licking it up as she bucks and writhes on the chair.

Finally, she slumps. Her thighs release me and the grip on my hair slackens. She lies back, groaning softly as she struggles to get her breathing under control. I kneel, licking her, tasting her, not wanting to spill a drop. Once I am satisfied I have licked her clean. I sit back on my heels and look up at her.

She sits up, looking around, momentarily confused before reaching down to slide up her skirt and knickers. As she stands, buttoning her blouse, she looks at me.

“Have you seen enough?” She asks, smiling.

I nod a yes as I slowly get to my feet.

“Good, it’s my girlfriend’s birthday on Saturday. I’ll need the cake before then. Wen do you think it will be ready”

“I can have it ready by Thursday.”

“Excellent,” she smiles, stepping closer and kissing me a soft languid kiss on the lips.

“I’ll see you on Thursday then.”

And with that, she scoops up her coat and saunters out of the shop. It is only after I hear the bell ring and the door slam shut that I trust myself to move, looking forward to Thursday already.