Interlude Coffee and Cream

In the sweet aroma of Rosie's Bakery Café, five lively young women gathered over coffee and pastries, the air thick with cinnamon and scandal. Their laughter bounced off the tiled walls, unfiltered and unrepentant, drawing more than a few curious glances from the other tables.

April (grinning):
"I swear, I've never seen anyone morph into muck so fast. That spreader did beautiful work."
Jenny (guffawing):
"And the molasses! He looked like a burned toffee pudding -- sticky, stunned, and supremely stupid."
Rosie (wiping her hands on her apron):
"Don't forget the feathering. Lucy's aim was deadly in that devilish game of goosy goost gander."
Molly (elegantly sipping her latte):
"And that wheelbarrow parade what a hoot! Mrs Lloyd gave him first-class delivery with those custard pies."
The laughter rolled again. Only Lucy, curled in the corner seat with her knees tucked up, smiled more quietly, her eyes flicking between her friends.

April (leaning in, eyes narrowing):
"You know, Lucy, you were very enthusiastic yesterday. Your eyes gleamed when he got pitched into the cow shed's channel"
Jenny (grinning):
"Almost like you've got something to prove."
April (mock-innocent):
"Which is interesting seeing as you're the only one who hasn't been upended and abandoned by Crispin Casanova."

Lucy (tilting her head, tone cool):
"Well, I suppose I prefer not to have hay in my knickers and regrets in the rafters. But each to her own, April."
The table erupted -- cackles, snorts, even Rosie clapping a floury hand to her mouth.
April (flushing but grinning):
"Low blow, Lucy."
Lucy (smirking):
"I'm short. I aim low."

Rosie waved a hand for calm, still chuckling.
Rosie:
"Whatever's going on under the surface, it's all bubbling up beautifully. Now, have you heard who's requested to host the next round?"
Molly:
"Don't tell me -- the vicar?"
April:
"Close. Mary. Lady Mayoress herself."

Jenny (arching a brow):
"The Mayoress? Fancy! Does she even like mud and custard?"
Rosie (dryly):
"Well, she did like Crispin -- once. Briefly. Very privately. Until he vanished on her faster than he left Molly's massage table."
Molly (rolling her eyes):
"Men are trash. Still, she kept her composure."
April:
"Now she wants to host his downfall. Right here in the bakery. Says it's a civic duty. And naturally -- it's all at his expense."
Jenny (delighted):
"Oh, he's paying?"
Rosie (grinning):
"Every penny. Flour, fruit, cleanup and my special custard, just for the occasion."
Molly:
"And the theme?"
Rosie (smiling slyly):
"Wait and see. I think you'll all like it."
Lucy (finally leaning in, eyes glinting):
"Well then. Let's make sure it's ca-pie-tal punishment."

They clinked their mugs together -- five women, one purpose, and an ominously quiet oven warming behind the counter.

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After hours at the bakery, tables groan beneath the weight of custard pies, fruit tarts, cakes and trifles. And centre stage: the piece de résistance -- a triple-tiered celebratory cake, chest-high, white-frosted and caramel-filled, glistening under spotlights.

Crispin emerges from behind a curtain, his penitent body once again adorned in borrowed femininity:
A tight whale-boned corset -- floral, pink, and at least two sizes too small, forcing his posture into a prim, chest-forward stance.
White stockings -- sheer and silky, clinging to shaved legs, suspended by garters.
Frilly panties -- dainty and absurdly fragile.

The hall erupts into delighted gasps and laughter as Mary herself takes the mic. She's in a velvet suit, martini in hand, hair swept up and lips painted blood red -- a host, a queen, a jester, and a judge.
"Ladies," she drawls with aristocratic precision, "we are gathered to honour this esteemed clown's contribution to vulgarity, pratfalls, and mansplained punchlines. So tonight, he shall star in a tribute to his favourite scene"
She raises an eyebrow.
"minus the charm."
She clicks her fingers.

Enter the chefs.
Jenny, April, Molly, Lucy and big breasted Daisy -- each one clad in a white kitchen apron, chef's hat and nothing else. Their skin glistens with oil and sugar dust. Their hands hold cream pies the size of dinner plates.
Crispin trembles in place. Mary lifts a single manicured finger.
"Begin."

The first pie -- from Daisy -- hits him square in the face.
Heavy, thick, banana cream. It clings. He staggers back, blinded.
Second pie -- April -- straight into the chest.
The corset absorbs the strike but splatters cream across arms and down his belly.
Third -- Molly -- a twin strike: one in the groin, one at the rear.
Strawberry cream explodes between thighs and down stockings. Crispin yelps. Mary snorts.
Jenny -- always with flair -- pirouettes and hurls two pies at once.
One hits the side of his head, the other upends into faux cleavage, dripping cream between the pink satin cups.

Mary steps forward slowly, still sipping her martini.
"A refined performance," she murmurs, "but let's see if you remember this bit"
She lifts her pie -- peanut butter and jelly -- and plants it full force into Crispin's face. He stumbles. Panties sag. The audience howls.
Mary leans in, deadpan. "Still funny?" she whispers.
And then -- a tug. From behind. Lucy yanks the panties down around his ankles. A stumble, a vain attempt to cover the crown jewels -- and April gives a timely shove.
Headfirst Crispin topples into the great cake.

His head sinks through the top tier -- thick white buttercream gives way to a deep caramel core. Arms flail, leg kick with the corset squelching. The cake trembles. Chunks slide down his back.
The chefs pull him out, dripping in frosting and shame. But the scene isn't over. Oh no. Up he is dragged again, legs apart and with Mary's final nod -- Lucy plants a custard pie into his face and he slides crotch-first back into the cake.
Caramel bursts up to thighs, frosting flies in all directions, and Crispin's erect manhood sinks into sweet oblivion. The chefs erupt into applause. Mary raises her glass.
"Well done, darling," she says dryly. "You've finally become the punchline."

Crispin sits there, half-submerged in ruined cake, dripping with frosting and failure, the corset askew, stockings sagging. From the confiture cauldron, Circe's voice coils around only his ears:
"Four done, my delightful tart. Three to go. So tell me -- who's next, my cream-caked fool?"