Carrot Cake: A Love Story

Note: This is another repost from the old blog. It seemed time to bring it over (particularly since a 2am wandering post is a bit, um, wandering).

“I don’t know why I brought you home,” Meljean muttered.

“You know why.” The ruthless sneer the carrot cake gave her made her tremble with longing. “You want me.”

“No!” Meljean turned her head away from the enticing ripple of cellophane, the angular sensuality of the slice within. “I don’t!” But her denial sounded weak to her own ears, and the cake—the cake, in all of its discerning sexiness—would not be fooled by such an obvious lie.

She backed up against the kitchen counter, felt the dig of the silverware drawer—the drawer that her absentminded husband always left open—into her plump rump. The sensation reminded her why she should resist the cake’s sinful temptation.

“You’re no good for me!” she cried.

But the cake wouldn’t let her retreat. The sweet, seductive odor followed her across the kitchen, cutting through the odd smells emanating from the garbage disposal. Her taste buds sprang to attention as if of their own volition.

The cake eyed the quivering buds triumphantly. “Why do you resist? The long, hard, delicious carrots that made me are exactly what you need. They’re healthy.”

“But not mixed with butter and flour and sugar and frosting—no! Do not think to trick me, you cretin,” Meljean said with heat, dismayed by her body’s betrayal. In desperation, she ran to the cupboard, tore it open.

The cake caught her, spun her around. “What do you have in there?”

Its touch sent a frisson of pleasure through her. Her mouth watered with desire. “Low-fat brownies,” she said defiantly.

“You gluttonous slut!” The cake’s tone became hard, unrelenting. “You’ll take anything into that whoring body of yours, won’t you!”

“No!” Meljean wailed, “You don’t understand!”

“I understand.” Its voice was cold, filled with dangerous intent. “You’ve given yourself over and over, and yet you’ve never been satisfied, you’ve only experienced a pale imitation of true pleasure.”

Sobbing, Meljean tried to push the cake away. “I can’t have you!”

“You will, damn you,” it gritted out. “Open your mouth.”

Its demand shuddered through her, but she could not find the words to speak. She shook her head wordlessly.

“Open your mouth, you slutty bitch!” It pressed against her mouth in a kiss surprisingly soft and sweet. Meljean’s lips opened on a gasp, and the cake delved deep.

She moaned in ecstasy, and took…and took…


“Are you cheating?” Her husband asked a few minutes later. “There’s white creamy stuff all over your mouth. That can’t be good for your diet.”

Meljean blushed. “It was carrot cake,” she admitted.

“I could make a joke about phallic vegetables,” he said, “but I suppose everyone reading this already has.”


Meljean fell silent, torn between guilt and the sweet afterglow the cake had given her. Hubby searched through the fridge, then looked up with a frown on his face.

“Didn’t you save any for me?”

“It was a forced seduction,” Meljean said. “I had to take it all; I couldn’t resist.”

“Ah, well, that makes it okay.” Hubby rolled his eyes and walked away, muttering about books with bulbous lettering on the covers.

Meljean grinned, and grabbed the box of low-fat brownie mix from the cupboard. “God, I’m such a slut,” she said.