Bakery Dawn With Her Fake Boyfriend

I never meant for the bakery to become my private porn theater, but here we am at 4:47 a.m., flour already dusting my apron, and Lorenzo peeling his hoodie off like he knows exactly what it does to me.

I’m Chloe, twenty-two, and I work the dawn shift at my aunt’s place on Maple. The fake-boyfriend thing started three weeks ago because of that greasy regular who kept cornering me by the croissants, calling me “sweet thing” and brushing my hip like he owned the rights. I panicked one afternoon and blurted that I had a boyfriend—possessive, jealous, the works. Lorenzo had been buying black coffee and two almond danishes every Tuesday for months. He overheard, smirked, and said, “I’ll play along if the coffee stays free.” I took the deal.

Then he started showing up before the locks even clicked open. “Gotta sell it,” he’d shrug, voice still rough from sleep. The first time I caught him stripping in the front, I almost dropped the dough scraper.

That morning I stayed hidden behind the kitchen pass-through, the little rectangle that lets me watch the display cases without being seen. Lorenzo locked the door behind him, flipped the CLOSED sign, and peeled the gray hoodie over his head in one slow roll. Underneath: bare chest, dark hair trailing down the middle, abs that flexed when he stretched. He scrubbed a hand over his face, then reached for the clean tee I kept hanging for him. But he didn’t put it on right away. He just stood there under the soft bakery lights, rolling his shoulders, and my pussy clenched so hard I had to press my thighs together.

I told myself it was harmless. Just looking. Just… verifying the performance. My fingers slid under the waistband of my panties before I finished the excuse. I was already slick. Two fingers found my clit and circled while I watched him tug at his belt, jeans hanging low on those hips. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t moan out loud and give the whole game away.

He caught me the next morning.

I thought I was invisible in the dark kitchen. Lorenzo stripped the same way—hoodie off, bare torso gleaming a little with early sweat—then turned straight toward the pass-through. Our eyes locked. He didn’t flinch. Instead he hooked his thumbs in his waistband and pushed the jeans down just far enough that the thick outline of his cock strained against black briefs. He cupped himself through the fabric, gave one slow stroke, and raised an eyebrow like he was asking permission to keep going.

I should have stepped out. I should have laughed it off. Instead I yanked my skirt up, shoved my soaked panties aside, and pushed two fingers into myself right there in the open, legs parted, free hand braced on the counter. My breathing went ragged. Lorenzo’s mouth curved. He freed his cock—heavy, already hard, the head flushed dark—and stroked it in time with my fingers. No words. Just the wet sound of me fucking myself and the soft slap of his fist. We stayed like that until my knees shook and I came with a muffled whimper, eyes never leaving his. He didn’t finish. He just tucked himself away, pulled the tee on, and unlocked the front like nothing had happened. When the creepy regular showed up at seven, Lorenzo kissed my temple and growled, “She’s taken,” and the guy finally backed off. My fake boyfriend had become something else entirely.

The third dawn broke the last bit of pretend.

I was already wet when he walked in. Lorenzo locked up, turned, and found me standing in the doorway of the kitchen instead of hiding. Flour dusted the work table behind me. My aunt wouldn’t be in for hours. He looked me over—messy bun, short skirt, the apron I hadn’t bothered to tie properly—and said, “You watching again, Chloe?”

“Yeah.” My voice came out husky. “Show me.”

He stripped slower this time. Hoodie. Tee. Jeans shoved down. Cock springing free, thick and ready. He stroked himself while I watched, thumb smearing the bead at the tip, and I couldn’t stay back anymore. I crossed the flour-dusted floor, dropped to my knees on the rubber mat, and took him into my mouth like I’d been starving for it. He groaned, hand sliding into my hair. I made it sloppy on purpose—spit running down his shaft, cheeks hollowed, tongue swirling under the head while I looked up at him. The glass of the display case caught our reflection: me on my knees, lips stretched around him, him staring at the mirror image of my mouth working him. “Fuck, look at you,” he muttered. “Been dreaming about this every morning you hid back there.”

I pulled off just long enough to gasp, “Me too,” then swallowed him deeper until my throat fluttered. He let me suck him until his thighs tensed, then hauled me up, spun me, and bent me over the work table. My palms hit the cool stainless steel dusted white with flour. He yanked my skirt to my waist, tore the panties down one leg, and shoved into me in one long thrust. I was soaked enough that he bottomed out easy, filling me so completely my moan bounced off the tiles.

“Harder,” I begged, already pushing back. “Lorenzo—god—don’t stop.”

He gave it to me exactly like that: deep, pounding strokes that made the table creak and flour puff up around my wrists. One hand gripped my hip hard enough to bruise; the other reached around to rub my clit in rough circles. I came fast, clenching around him, crying out his name while my fake boyfriend fucked me like he’d been waiting years instead of weeks. He didn’t ease up. He kept driving into me through the aftershocks until I was babbling yes and more and watch me.

He pulled out, spun me again, and sat on the low prep stool, cock glistening. “Ride it. Reverse. I want to see that ass bounce.”

I straddled him backward, sank down, and started fucking myself on him. He gripped my waist and helped bounce me, watching over my shoulder in the reflection of the glass case as my cheeks jiggled with every drop. I reached back and spread myself so he could see everything—where he disappeared inside me, the wet stretch, the way I dripped down his balls. “Like that?” I panted. “You like watching me take it?”

“Love it,” he growled, thrusting up hard. “Been stroking myself thinking about you fingering that pretty cunt while I stripped. You’re filthy, Chloe.”

I came again like that, grinding down, walls fluttering. He lasted maybe ten more strokes before he lifted me off, stood, and painted my tits in thick ropes. Cum striped across my collarbones, dripped onto the apron, marked me right there in the bakery that still smelled like yeast and butter. I looked down at the mess, then up at his wrecked, satisfied face, and laughed breathlessly.

He grabbed a clean towel from the sink, ran it under warm water, and wiped me gently—between my breasts, over my stomach, between my legs where I was still pulsing. Soft kisses landed on my mouth, my jaw, the corner of my eye. We were both grinning like idiots.

“So,” he said, voice low, “this fake thing just got pretty fucking real.”

I nuzzled into his neck. “Yeah. And I’ll be watching you strip again tomorrow before dawn. Same show. Maybe I’ll even leave the kitchen light off so you have to wonder how wet I already am.”

He kissed me once more, slow and sweet, then helped me tie the apron properly over the fresh tee he’d loaned me. We unlocked the front together like nothing filthy had just gone down on the flour-dusted table. The first customer of the day—some sleepy student—ordered a plain bagel. Lorenzo poured the coffee, winked at me over the counter, and whispered, “Next time I’m making you come while you’re frosting the cupcakes. Multi-tasking.”

I nearly choked on my own spit trying not to laugh. Fake boyfriend, my ass. This was the realest shift I’d ever worked.