Alexander Hamilsin

Laf×Båğůëťťë

It was wrong. Oh-so absolutely horrific and utterly disgusting. He loved it.

The bakery had just closed fifteen minutes ago. It'd been a very busy day of running back and forth with orders and freshly baked goods. Yeah, the profit was alright, and Lafayette always got a workout from it, but he hated it so much.

"Oh, but Laf! You're French! You must love baking, right?" Fuck that. In Lafayette's opinion, baking sucked losers dry. All the ingredients and reactions and screaming costumers and bread going stale from being left out for too long; It was horrible.

The only good part of it was now.

Every Friday, after everyone had left, Marquis would throw away the stale bread.

He would be constantly scolded by his father when he was younger. "Sell all of the bread, Gilbert!" Or "Why do you never sell that one type of baguette? Stop making it, then!"

He pushed the loaf of bread in deeper, moaning as the baguette's tip grazed his prostate.

Okay, so it was a little more wrong than he dared think about.

But was anyone stopping him? Nope.

So he stayed on the bakery counter, legs in the air and knees bent, one arm behind him to keep his balance and the other ravishing and abusing his ass with the stale bread.

The bakery reeked of bread and sweat and sex, the sticky reminder of his last round resting in a now-filled éclaire.

Lafayette let out a high-pitched, choked whine, bringing his other hand to help grasp the baguette and pound it into him.

He'd have to be quick. Gilbert knew from experience that after a while the bread would get soggy after some time and flake away inside of him, and he really didn't want to be shitting bread for a week again

So he clasped the baguette in one hand, drove it into himself over and over again, and grasped onto his own baguette with his other hand.

With a weak sob he came, seeing white for a moment and collapsing on the counter. The bread stayed lodged in his ass, growing soft as his cock did. Lafayette didn't care right now. He drifted asleep on the counter, dreading the looks he'd get from Hercules in the morning.