After a pause, Crispin speaks.

My first penance, fearsome Circe, is owed to Jenny the buxom barmaid of The Cock Inn. I bedded and discarded the wench like a lord flicking wine from his sleeve. Many's the time since I've shown my brazen face and ogled her cavernous cleavage with my leering looks. And at the end of an evening's carousel, sprawled drunkenly at the bar, for crude sport I sought to flick peanuts down her valley. Rosie the baker's daughter has overheard my crude sexual innuendo about her intimate custard pie far too often. She will gleefully supply Jenny with an arsenal to dispense sticky, sweet justice.

Circe nods her contentment and our tale resumes two nights later. The heavy oak door of The Cock Inn creaks open as Crispin shuffles inside. Jenny, the voluptuous tapster, stands behind the polished bar, her ample cleavage barely restrained by the snug blouse she wears -- the kind that threatens to burst open at any moment.

Her eyes flash with a wicked gleam as she approaches, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. From behind her back, she produces a pie -- golden, glossy and warm, topped with a delicate lattice crust shimmering with sugar crystals. The filling is a thick, creamy custard, the scent of vanilla and fresh cream filling the air.

"Keep your eyes on the pie," Jenny commands, in a sultry and slightly husked voice. Cristin's gaze is fixed upon on the culinary masterpiece. The crust buttery, flaky -- the custard inside a pale yellow pool of sweet silk. Yet inevitably his eyes twitch, a flicker of temptation as Cristin's gaze drifts involuntarily upward.

A sharp smack!-- the custard pie hits his cheek, splattering sticky globs down Crispin's face and soaking into his shirt. He blinks pie from his eyes, and tries again. Pie held firm before him by the temptress as before. Yet again, his philandering eyes wander -- drawn irresistibly to the generous swell of Jenny's blouse, the subtle dip promising so much more.

Another pie! This time, lemon custard -- bright and tangy -- splatters against his temple. Jenny smiles wider and, with a slow, deliberate motion, unbuttons her blouse. The fabric falls away, revealing a lacy black brassiere that frames twin orbs like rare jewels. The bra straps glitter faintly with tiny beads, catching the dim pub light.

"Eyes on the pie," she reminds, holding up another, this one filled with rich raspberry filling-- deep red and glossy. Crispin's gaze darts to the pie, but the black lace is a siren's call. His eyes drift again
Another delicious smack! Raspberry and custard exploded across his cheek, sticky and sweet.

Now the blouse slips from Jenny's shoulders, greeting the floor. Slowly unhooking her brassiere it slides to the ground and she stands boldly topless, her skin pale and flushed, nipples prominent.
"Try again," she says, lips curving. Crispin stares at the custard pie -- this time butterscotch, thick and golden, steam almost seeming to rise from its surface. But his eyes betray him once more, flicking to her bare skin.
Smack! Butterscotch custard now splashes across his face, rich and decadent.

The last pie appears -- naturally it is peanut butter: thick, smooth, and sticky -- poetic justice for past misdeeds. Jenny holds it high, a triumphant grin on her lips.
Crispin cannot help himself. His vision falters, eyes drawn irresistibly to the barmaid's rack.
A final smack! The pie slams into his face: peanut butter and custard clinging in gooey globs, mingling with the butterscotch, raspberry, and lemon already dripping from his skin and hair.

Jenny's voice is sharp as a clarion: "Down with the trousers. Now."
Meekly, Crispin obeys, dropping the trousers to his knees. Humbly, he complies with Jenny's order to hold the front open -- and a thick, dark bucket load of malt extract fresh from the brewery is poured inside, sticky and sweet, oozing into the fabric and clinging to his cock and balls.
Then turning his rear is presented to the tavern wench. More malt extract spills and drip from a second pail, coating the backside and running down his legs.

Crispin stand there, a glutinous mess of pies and malt -- humbled, sticky, and utterly undone.
"Thank you, Jenny," he choaks, in a voice thick and ashamed.
From the corner of the room, a soft chuckle floats -- the faintest whisper of Circe watching, satisfied by fulfilment of the first penance