THE NASTY INSPECTOR

Inspector Davies came late in the day to Gilly's Pie Shoppe. Which means she came early. The baking was nearly done, and most of the inventory was cooling on the shelves of the store, waiting for the morning's customers. Inspector Davies was from the health department -- it was her job to inspect every distributor of food in the region. She stood ramrod straight, substantial chest out, stuffed shirt buttoned completely to the collar, hair pulled back, sharp eyes peering out from behind black-rimmed conservative glasses.

"Right, you silly woman," Inspector Davies told Gilly as she surveyed the pies and cakes on the shelves. "I don't like the looks of this. The temperature in your shop is much too high to have icing and pudding and custard out like this." The health inspector took out a long thin thermometer, shook it once, shook it again, and before Gilly could stop her, plunged it into the center of a perfectly made coconut cream pie. "Can't have cream and custard sitting at room temperature. They might curdle." Gilly nearly curdled as she looked in horror at the device marring the smooth surface of the creamy pastry. Even if there wasn't a problem with the temperature, she could never sell that pie now.

Davies took the thermometer from the pie and read the result. "As I suspected," she muttered, and picked up the pie. "You can't sell this." And with that, she overturned the pastry onto the floor. It landed right on Gilly's glamorous pump.

Davies was already moving on. She bent over a pie on a table, her face almost touching the golden custard. Gilly eyed her raised, ample bottom, sorely tempted, but no -- this horrible woman could put her out of business. Davies stood up, holding the pie closer to her face, inhaling. Then she thrust it at Gilly. "Look at this, silly," she said. "What do you see?" Gilly actually saw a smooth creamy filling that would have felt perfect against her skin at the moment, but she kept silent. Davies brought the pie back toward her own face, so close, so tempting a target. "Condensation," she snarled. "Water droplets on the surface. You can't sell this." And another perfect pastry went splattering onto the floor.

Davies took out a fancy electronic notebook, a palm pilot, and made an entry. "Room temperature ... Condensation ..." She turned abruptly and bumped into a table of goodies. The impact caused her to loosen her grip, and the palm pilot dropped into a bucket of frosting. Davies stared at the deep bucket of white goo. Gilly stared at the deep bucket of white goo. Davies looked at Gilly. Gilly looked at Davies. "Do get that for me, will you?" Davies said, and moved on to the next table. Gilly sighed and dipped her arm almost up to her shoulder into the bucket, groping around for the inspector's notebook. When she stood, the entire sleeve of her posh jacket was white with the sticky frosting.

She turned around and almost bumped into Davies' formidable arse. The inspector was bent over, examining another pie at very close range. It was a near miss. Had Gilly bumped the woman, she certainly would have knocked her face-first into the gooey concoction (and we wouldn't want that, now, would we?). Davies was oblivious, peering over her glasses at a fluffy mint-green pastry, poking it again and again with that thermometer. She glanced over her shoulder at Gilly, who was horrified to see the marred surface of her creation. "The temperature on this one is fine, but I thought I'd check for rodent droppings." She stood, holding the pie. "There were none, but you can't sell this." And once more, she tipped it over onto the floor.

"Wait a minute,' Davies said suddenly. "Was that a vat of frosting sitting in the open air?" She spun quickly, forgetting the green trifle she'd just so unceremoniously dumped on the floor. He sensible-shoed foot slid over the goo as she strode, sending her foot backward and her ample torso forward. Gilly grabbed her by the blouse in the nick of time, and for a brief moment, Davies was suspended in mid-fall, weight completely forward, kept only by the Shoppe owner and the high standards of the Indonesian textile industry from crashing ignominiously into the sweet-laden table before her.

Davies tried to regain her balance, but her shoes again slid on the pie she'd thrown on the floor. Both women could hear the faint sound of fabric giving way, the not so gentle ripping of seams, and suddenly, Davies was shirtless, hurtling through the air -- and plunged head-first into the deep vat of sticky white frosting in front of her!

Gilly paused a moment to take it all in. Again, she found herself confronting Davies' upturned arse. Only this time, the inspector's head was buried up to her shoulders in a bucket of icing, icing which now flowed out among the woman's now bare shoulders, displaced by the enormous size of her ego.

Davies stood awkwardly, groping for balance, the bucket still on her head. "Cor," thought Gilly. "Her ego isn't the only thing enormous about her!" Devoid of her blouse, Inspector Davies was revealing just how stuffed a shirt she was. "DD" didn't even begin to describe the mammaries barely contained by a reinforced black brassiere. "EE" might not even do it. The blinded civil servant's funbags wobbled enticingly as she groped toward Gilly. She tried to lift the bucket off her head, found her hands too messy, reached out, found Gilly's (perfectly adequate and beautifully shaped) chest, and proceeded to wipe her hand up and down Gilly's expensive blazer.

"Silly," came a muffled voice from beneath the bucket, "get me out of here." Gilly looked down at her further ruined clothes and began to fume. "And," continued the voice from behind the plastic vat, "even without my thermometer I can tell that this icing is not the required temperature for storage. That is a major violation. I am serving you notice. I am shutting you down."

Gilly looked at the bucket-headed figure with the enormous tits standing in front of her, and her blood began to boil. Not to a hot rage, mind you, but to a slow cool burn that the European Union had certified is the required temperature for ... exacting revenge. She looked down at her ruined suit, her ruined shoes, around at her ruined shop. Cool, precise, messy revenge.

Gilly walked to the comical figure in the middle of the room, still with the overturned bucket of goo on her head. She carefully took the thermometer from Davies' hand, and when the inspector opened her hand, questioning, Gilly set a custard pie, tin down, into the woman's outstretched hand. Gilly then stretched out Davies other hand, palm up, and placed a second pie in it. Then, ever so carefully, indeed reverently, she slipped her fingers into the cups of Davies' bra and pulled the fabric down.

No metaphor could describe the motions or, indeed, the sheer quantity of flesh that poured out of Davie's constricting bra once Gilly had pulled the fabric away. Gilly was as straight as they come, but even she was mesmerized, intoxicated, by the wobble of Davies' enormous dancing and now fully exposed breasts. In the distance, she heard the faint choral sound of titmen viewing the site, angelic, offering thanks. The rest of her audience merely enjoyed at the absurd sight of the inspector, bucket of goo still on her head, arms held out like a scarecrow, two pristine custard pied in her hands, and perfectly enormous chest (pristinely clean, for the moment) hanging out for the world (or at least Gilly's website audience) to see.

"Right," Gilly said, "phase two." She walked around the inspector so that she could stand behind her, and at last reached to remove the vat from on top of her head. The bucket came off with a giant sucking sound, like she was pulling Davies' head out of her arse, and gobs and gobs of pent-up icing flowed out of it onto Davies shoulders and arms and ... "Tits!" Davies shouted, "my tits!" And she slapped her hands protectively over her exposed chest.

Hands, of course, in which Gilly had carefully placed the two custard pies ("fortunately, big ones," Gilly thought). Now Davies was cupping her huge hooters (can't be a literary masterpiece without alliteration) in pie tins full of creamy yellow custard, smearing the sticky substance all over her chest. She looked down in horror, and when she let go, the tins clung to her tits like a special-effects bra in a low-budget science fiction movie.

"You are so going to get it," said Davies, bending over to retrieve the bucket of goo that had been on her head. The pie tins could not possible deal with the combined physical laws of gravity and tit-shaking that the action set in motion, and the inspector was once again topless, her heavy sticky breasts swinging beneath her as she leaned over the bucket. She stood upright again, having retrieved her glasses from the goo, and placed them on her face. "You are so going to get it."

Actually, Davies got it. Right in the face. Gilly let her have it Mack Sennet style, slapping a cream pie so hard into her face that particles of goo flew back against the wall behind her. Davies' head rocked back and her chest thrust forward, and Gilly couldn't resist -- she grabbed two creamy flans and slathered them all over the inspector's huge tits. Davies raised her hands to her face, then lowered them to her breasts, not sure where to wipe, what to defend.

Gilly had already moved on to a new target, however. As the inspector groped to clear her eyes and ward off an assault from the front, Gilly slipped behind her and, with skill developed by years of misbehaviour, deftly undid the inspector's skirt and let it fall to the floor. Again, she paused to marvel at the curves she had revealed -- and at the decidedly non civil-servant knickers and stockings the inspector had hidden beneath her skirt. The frilly black knickers did absolutely nothing to contain or cover Davies' significant assets. Indeed, Gilly decided, they were so useless they might as well not be there at all -- and with equal deftness she slid the inspector's knickers down to Davies' knees.

Davies, having cleared her eyes, looked down at her now exposed bush and shrieked. She looked helplessly at Gilly, now standing beside her. Gilly smiled sweetly and handed her a thick pie. Davies shrugged, looked forlornly at the camera recording all of her humiliation, and slapped the pastry over her crotch. "It feels so much nicer," Gilly said, "if you rub it in well," and she reached over to do just that.

Davies wobbled a bit on her feet. Again, Gilly reached out to help. She took each of the inspector's nipples between thumb and forefinger and pinched delicately. Davies wobbled some more. Gilly began to hum "ring around the rosie" and swung the inspector around ... And around ... And around... And finally when Davies was good and dizzy she let go. The inspector, hampered not only by dizziness but by the skirt at her ankles and the knickers at her knees, lurched toward a table full of Gilly's best and frothiest creations. She hit the table at the waist and jack-knifed forward. Her tits sank into two thick cold pastries perfectly placed beneath her, but thank goodness, her face remained clear.

Except that the force of her landing had jarred loose Gilly's most perfect creation, a tall chocolate pudding cake to rival anything Clown Julie had ever put together on her website. Still bent over the table, chest engulfed in cream, Davies' looked up in horror to see the tall chocolate confection wobble, tilt, lean, and finally fall with a splat onto her face, head, and shoulders. It was too much. She sank her head back wearily onto the pool of chocolate welling up on the table.

Gilly saw none of this. For the umpteenth time in this sketch, she found herself looking at Davies' upturned arse. Except this time, given that the inspector's knickers were at her knees and she was bent double over the end of a table, Gilly was pretty much looking up Davies' arse. It was a generous arse, well-shaped, round, fleshy. And the only unsploshed part of Davies' body. It was too, too tempting a target. Gilly stepped to beside a table laden with creamy missiles, and like the best test bowler she could remember (so it wouldn't be an Englishman), she took aim, wound, and fired. The creamy bomb exploded against one of Davies raised buttocks. Gilly aimed again, and splattered the other side. But she was too far way, and her aim was too poor, to hit the most tempting target of her groggy victim. Grabbing two gooey concoctions, she dashed up to the bent inspector and gleefully smeared first one, then the other, between the woman's open thighs. Davies let out an audible sigh of what Gilly was sure was pleasure, and remained slumped over the table.

"At least someone's getting some enjoyment out of these," Gilly thought, "since my customers can't because they're not at the proper --
something caught her eye on the table beside her, she picked it up, Davies' thermometer -- "temperature."

Inspector Davies of the health department startled into consciousness at a sudden jab -- at sudden penetration -- where there should be no jab, where nothing should penetrate. She looked over her shoulder to confirm that, yes, Gilly had done what, yes, Gilly had done. The still clean proprietor of Gilly's Pie Shoppe smiled sweetly down at the humiliated inspector. "I am sorry, Davies," she said happily, "but I'm afraid this indicates you're not the required temperature to shut me down." She slapped one last impaling pie against Davies' arse. "Much too cold, I think."

Then she quoted the philosopher Sammy-Jane: "and for once it wasn't me that got messy."

The End