Welcome to the first-ever collaboration between BellaFlan and mac! The usual disclaimer applies: neither of us own Twilight, nor do we benefit financially from borrowing the universe. We do, however, own the words we write and the plot of Sweet Tooth. No unauthorized borrowing, copying, translating, publishing, etc. is allowed without the express permission of both mac and BellaFlan. Don't be a douchebag.

Many thanks to askthemagic8ball and Jkane180, our betas, and to JewelzP, our prereader...

The frosting for the nipples was too pink. No real woman's nipples were that weird shade of bubble gum... at least I didn't think so; the number of naked nipples I'd seen in person could be counted on one hand.

I scowled and scraped the bowl of buttercream into the garbage before setting up another mixing bowl full of butter, powdered sugar, milk, and vanilla on the mixer. The customer had insisted on double D cups for the cake, and even though the chocolate cake mounds were sculpted into the perfect looking tits - I compared them against Miss January from my worn and dog-eared copy of Juggs - they were just too big. Too big and entirely too pink. Sure, I wasn't Hugh Hefner or anything, but I really had seen more than my fair share of paper titties.

Glancing furtively around the kitchen and noting the only other employee in the shop was out front with a customer, I quickly lowered my mouth to the cake and flicked out my tongue to lick a dollop of the overly pink buttercream from the cake nipple. Oh, fuck. It shouldn't have caused such a visceral reaction, but I felt my cock harden and ache, throbbing almost painfully against my fly. I pushed it to the side to move it into a more comfortable position, but touching myself only caused it to throb and lengthen along my thigh. Great - I had just licked the cake and palmed my genitals. Hopefully the health department wasn't planning a surprise inspection today.

This was the closest I'd probably come to tits for the rest of my life. I didn't really go out a lot - since quitting my soul-sucking job as an accountant six months ago to pursue my dream as a baker, my life basically revolved around sleeping and working. I'd never had many friends ("weird" was the word most often used to describe me) and even fewer girlfriends, so it wasn't a huge change in lifestyle for me when I'd been hired on at The Pink Cookie, the only pastry job I could find and the only erotic cake bakery in all of TriBeCa. There were other bakeries that made penis cakes in Manhattan, but we were renowned for our attention to detail. I was lonely... even though baking penis cakes and vagina cupcakes helped satisfy some of my, er, more unusual predilections.

"Cullen! Out front," Carlisle called out. "We need a consult."

Fuck! Leaving the kitchen would require removing my coat, the only thing hiding my raging hard-on. Double fuck, my boss was currently speaking with a petite brunette, and judging from her body language, it was already apparent she wasn't at all comfortable. So, did I risk committing another health violation by leaving on my whites or frighten the small woman out of the shop with my inappropriate bulge?

"Coming," I muttered. Yeah, I wished. There was absolutely no time to take care of business. The coat would stay on.

"I'd like it to be edible," I heard the girl say softly as I rinsed buttercream and powdered sugar off my hands and patted them against my coat.

"If anyone can do it, Edward can. Did you see the picture of King Schlong?" Carlisle flipped through the sticky pages of the display book. "The mathematics involved in engineering that erection alone was astounding. A lesser artisan would have settled for a perpendicular erection, but Edward insisted on a 45 degree angle. I'm still not sure how that dick didn't split in two."

"I like realism," I explained and grabbed a tray from the display case, offering a pastry to the client. "Pink cookie?"

"Sure," she stammered, drawing my eyes to her mouth. "Thanks."

Did I have a trace of buttercream on my lip? Oh god, could she know what I had been doing in the kitchen? Maybe she was from the Department of Health. The panic welled in my chest, deflating my hard-on immediately, but then she took a small bite of the cookie, her tongue shooting out to catch a few crumbs. Health Inspector or not, my dick liked her, and I was right back to square one - with my dick tenting my pants.

"Is... is that buttercream frosting?" Her eyebrow twitched rapidly, like a nervous tic, and she sniffed deeply.

Oh, I was fucked. "I... er... well, you see... uh."

"I love the smell of buttercream frosting." Her demeanor instantly changed with her words. Where she had been nervous and tentative, now she was, well... almost aggressive. She was leaning toward me, and one hand clutched at the sleeve of my coat.

Carlisle glanced at me over her head and mouthed, "Whoa," and rolled his eyes before hurrying off to help another customer.

"Um, yeah, I was frosting a cake in the back. It's for a bachelor party," I offered.

Her eyebrow was still spasming, and my cock picked up the rhythm. Thank god Carlisle had wandered away because I wasn't so sure my coat was camouflaging anything, particularly since my hard-on had decided to dance in time with my customer's convulsing brow.

"Oh!" A pretty flush crept up out of the neckline of her shirt. It was the perfect color for the nipples of the cake, and I was two seconds away from asking her if she'd follow me to the kitchen to let me match the color to my buttercream but then remembered that would be super creepy, and she was a potential customer. I stared at her neck, trying to commit the shade to memory. "Well, uh, will you use buttercream on my cake order?"

My balls ached as her breasts heaved, her nipples hardening before my eyes. Goddamn, she was just luscious.

Right. Customer. Order. The consult. "So, I overheard a bit of what you requested. You want a penis cake?"

She was breathing heavily out of her mouth, her hands fluttering around the vicinity of her chest. "Yes. Oh god. Buttercream." She blew out a few quick breaths and then seemed to steel herself... against what, I couldn't hazard a guess. "I... need a cake for a bachelorette party. I want a penis. Oh! I mean... the cake should be a penis. Pierced. You know... I like... well, the penis should have a Prince Albert piercing. A ring... through the..." She trailed off, her voice strangled and high-pitched.

I couldn't take my eyes off her heaving chest, and not just because the color was perfect. Her tits were the exact size and shape of the centerfold from the May 1993 issue of Hustler. Well, I couldn't be sure, of course - this woman was wearing a bra and other clothes and lacking a staple.

"That shouldn't be a problem," I told her cleavage. "Do you have any idea for the size, Ms..."

"Uh. Oh. Yeah, my name is Isabella Swan." She stuck out her hand, and for a second I thought she was going to try to shake my dick, which would have been entirely possible, given it was wiggling against the zipper of my pants in an enthusiastic effort to greet her.

"Edward Cullen," I said, taking her hand and pumping it a few times. "So, um, Ms. Swan-"

"Isabella. Please."

"Okay, Isabella, then. How big would you like the penis to be?"

"Enormous," she squeaked.


My cock continued to dance beneath my coat long after Isabella left which made me wonder if she was some sort of snake charmer. The heat of her hand still lingered where she had grabbed my coat, and I sniffed the sleeve, dazedly staring at my nearly finished bachelor party project. The breasts were scaled down now and re-frosted to a perfect, creamy peachy-pink. The customer would likely complain - if he, in fact, could tell the difference between a set of double D's and Bella's spectacular, full C cup, which I doubted.

The problem with the nipples had been the buttercream by itself was just too delicate on such a massive rack. The answer had come to me as I had stared at Isabella's erect nipples; I needed to use fondant. The heavier icing was easier to mold perfectly into her likeness, well, at least into the heaven I could only imagine was hidden under her shirt. Sighing heavily, I cupped the breasts about half an inch away from actually touching the frosting.

Isabella. She was my muse today, and she had no fucking clue. Blinking several times, I desperately tried to conjure her into my mind, starting with the exposed flesh of her neckline. The untrained eye would have failed to notice that beneath the peachy blush lay a light sprinkling of freckles. I had always been a numbers man after all, and small details such as a light freckle sprinkling never went unnoticed by me. When committing images to memory, minute elements were key to achieving verisimilitude.

"Edward," I could hear her whisper in my ear. "I want you to wear a Prince Albert. I want it to be edible."

Piping cream exploded out of the piping tube lying prone on the counter in front of me.
"I want to suck buttercream off your..."

Suddenly and without warning, Chris de Burgh's voice filled the room, roaring out the song "Patricia the Stripper".

And with a swing of her hips, she started to strip...

The lights dimmed, and a spotlight shone brightly on the cake. Isabella materialized in front of me, grinning flirtatiously. She lifted her sweater, showing me my inspiration.

To tremendous applause, she took off her drawers...

She smiled wider, one hand holding her shirt in place above her bared breasts, the other circling frosting around her nipple like a sugar-addicted Picasso. Smiling back, I painted the rosy hue of her blush onto the sugary peaks of the cake in front of me.

And with a lick of her lips, she undid all her clips, threw it all in the air, and everyone stared...

"Edward, what the fuck?" Carlisle's voice bitch-slapped me back into reality, Bella fading before my eyes.

"Huh?" My voice cracked.

"Dude, what the fuck was that?" Carlisle asked again, starting to artfully create lifelike labia out of light primrose-colored gum paste from across the metal counter. They were a topping for our muffins - Carlisle insisted using a raisin for the clitoris, something that never failed to annoy me. He'd threatened to force me to make tampon biscuits to insert through the labia and into the muffins if I didn't go with it, so I kept my mouth shut.

"I don't know what you mean."

"That shit out front with you and the moderately hot customer. I mean, you're usually a little...strange, but that was downright spastic."

I shrugged and picked up a brush to apply texture to the nipples, stippling with the bristles to create goose bumps. This cake was a work of art. It was not just a pair of titties, it was a bust that should be on display in the Guggenheim. Also, I kinda wanted to nestle my dick between the chocolaty mounds.

"Not that she was normal or anything either... I mean, who the fuck gets off on buttercream?"

An angel. A beautiful, perfect, delightfully perverted, big-tittied angel. "You better hope a whole lot of people do, or else you're in the wrong line of work."

"You're evading the question."

"The question is ridiculous. I wasn't acting spastic." I took out a sketch pad to draw up plans for another order; instead I drew breasts. But I didn't stop there. I sketched out a neck, a mouth, and a nose and eyes...fuck. I really was spastic. Quickly, I flipped the page and pressed the pencil into the paper, drawing a nice, safe vertical line. A rational and completely non-spastic line. Back and forth, I dragged the pencil over paper, darkening the line, stroking the paper, up and down, back and forth, over and over again.

"Oh, fuck. Dude, that cake is a work of art."

Like I said... "Thanks."

"I need to take a picture of this for the book."

"She really did seem to like the buttercream," I mused, finding the line had morphed into a bouquet of long-stemmed cupcakes. Each little cake was decorated with a vagina, and no two were alike. One vagina had straight, symmetrical labia surrounding a perfect little clitoris. Another looked more like a blooming flower, with the labia minora jutting out beyond the majora. None of them included a raisin.

"What the fuck is that?"

"Women like flowers, yeah?"


I shrugged, trying to act more nonchalant and less twitchy. "I'm thinking of sending flowers to...a girl."

Carlisle snorted. "Roses, Cullen. That's a bouquet of pussy. No woman wants to receive that."

I frowned, wondering if I should grab some bananas from the freezer and dip them in chocolate to send a more heterosexual message in the form of a cock bouquet.

"Who's the lucky lady?"

"No one," I mumbled.

"Cullen, you're a freak," Carlisle muttered and snapped a picture of my cake with his cell phone.
"What do you call it?"

"The bouquet?"

"No, man, the cake. It's your creation, so go ahead and name it for the book."

I gazed in reverence at her, the beautiful pair of breasts that I now loved beyond all reason.

"Isabella Swan," I said automatically, because that wasn't at all weird.

Cullen, you really are a spastic freak.

A/N: So, Sweet Tooth will be a short work of fiction... maybe six-ish chapters long? Thanks for giving it a read, and thanks for your feedback!

Inspiration for the King Schlong cake:
classifieds . thestranger . com/seattle/ViewImage?oid=oid%3A939583ℑ=oid%3A1052945