With Daddy fighting in Korea and Mom working 9 to 5 at Woolworth’s, it was up to Cally to make her own cake for her 16^th birthday. But it was so hot! As Cally mixed the batter, she had a naughty thought. Her boyfriend Cole would have said “so fucking hot,” and then blushed red as the devil’s hiney. Cally blushed to think of it, but she also tingled. Cole was off at boot camp, and Cally wondered if she’d ever see him again. She wondered if they’d ever do more than kiss. Poor Cole. Poor Cally. It was so fucking hot. And the old stove was just making things hotter. Cally set Grandma’s timer, and to its rhythmic tick she shed her clothing. That’s better. Or at least a little better. She flipped on the trusty Philco and danced around the kitchen to Georgia Gibbs singing ‘Kiss of Fire.’

She almost didn’t hear the bing of Grandma’s timer. Wouldn’t that be great—to burn the cake and maybe burn down the whole apartment because she didn’t hear the timer while dancing to ‘Kiss of Fire’? Cally chuckled with such thoughts as she bent to open the oven. “Ice Mon!” came the cry, and a hard rap at the door.

Oh no, oh no, oh no! Cally thought. “Just a sec,” she called out, while quickly fetching the cake from the oven and setting it on a tray. She was about to put on her clothes when the door swung open.

“Ice mon,” the man announced. Slung over his shoulders, clamped in big iron tongs, he had two hefty blocks of ice, steam rising up, melt rivering down his broad bare back. “Sorry ma’am, gotta get these in the box afore it’s too late.”

“That’s that’s that’s,” Cally stuttered. “I was just...” She pointed to the cake.

“Indeed something does smell delicious,” the man said, and he set his ice on the linoleum floor. Cally’s finger stuttered toward the cake.

“Mmm-mmm, I’m sure,” said the man, “but no, not the cake.”

“Not the cake?”

The man shook his head.

“What?” Cally asked.

The man smiled. A big, juicy smile. “Pussy,” he said. “Cunt, pure and simple. Mind if I have a taste?”

Cally’s mouth dropped open, the “K” of cunt stuck in the back of her throat.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the man said, and his big hands hoisted Cally into the air, set her gently on the table, slung her legs over his shoulders, bent his head to her sex, and pushed his juicy tongue into her even juicier fuck hole.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Cally moaned, and the man’s tongue delved and darted, plunged and probed. “Oh no, oh no! Oh no!” she cried, and the ice man’s lips clamped to her clit, and she came, her first ever orgasm, and she gushed, a froth of girl juice flooding the man’s face. By the time he’d tongued her to two more orgasms the cake was cooled and the two blocks of ice swam in their own slush.

“God you’re hot girl,” the ice man declared, and Cally blushed. “So fucking hot.”

“I’m so fucking hot,” Cally repeated.

“We’ll fix that,” the ice man promised, and he lifted Cally from the table and set her on what remained of one of the ice blocks, after which he scuffed away his shoes and tugged his jeans down and off.

“Are you going to...?” Cally asked.

“Deed I am, if you don’t mind,” Ice Man said.

Cally nodded.

Ice man’s cock fucked deep into Cally’s virgin cunt. Again and again she came, and again when a million shards of Ice Man’s seed banged, barged, and battered against the door-knocker of her womb.

“Sweetie, sweetie, sweetie,” he crooned, holding her close until they’d both calmed, his big cock still ensconced in her sex.

“I know it’s not frosted yet, but would you care for a piece of cake?” Cally offered.

“What I’d care for,” Ice Man answered, “is a second helping of you.”

Three helpings later, having feasted upon each other in more than several ways, they were sated, but also famished, and they fed each other cake, which they agreed was delicious, even if it wasn’t iced.