Oven Women

by: Ticky Sowdenham

No woman would fuck the wheat-stalk-cock men. The dry stems tore the tender flesh of teenage vulvas. Women tired of finding kernels in their panties, of itching for days, of waiting for their vaginas to expel the husks. Girls with allergies endured burning rashes and painful swelling, and suffered silent humiliation as their doctors lectured them on STDs and safe sex. One by one, all the women in this little river-and-farm town told their wheat-stalk-cock boyfriends to hit the road.
At a diner on the outskirts of town, the wheat-stalk-cock men sat in a back booth, sipping syrupy black coffee and plotting. They shifted in their seats, groins aching, stalk-cocks heavy with unshed kernels.

“How are we supposed to live like this?” asked a handsome, seventeen year old boy named George. He had greasy blond hair and blue eyes that were red underneath. “Even the whores turn us down.” He nodded in the direction of Miss Annabelle’s Manor, the red carpeted mansion full of girls with exposed nipples. “Get out of here,” Miss Annabelle had commanded, “and spread your starchy seed somewhere else.”

The other men shook their heads. Finally, a quiet boy named Harold raised his head and murmured, “I read a story about women in France. Oven women.”
“Oven women?” the others asked, chiming in unison.
Harold nodded. “They have ovens instead of stomachs,” he said, meaning uteruses.
“What about their cunts?” asked one of the older men. He scratched his gray, tobacco-stained scruff.
Harold shrugged. “It didn’t say nothing about their cunts.”
“Well,” said George, “I say we go to France and find these oven women. I bet they’re tired of fucking guys whose dicks turn to bratwursts in their ovens.”
The other men agreed, and they pooled their money to buy plane tickets for Paris. They arrived the next day and immediately began their search for the oven women. But when they asked the hotel concierge, the tour guide and the cab driver about the oven women, they were answered with the same chilly silence.

After an exhausting day of searching and sightseeing, they huddled in a dark bar near Montmartre.
“We’ll never find them,” Harold wailed.
“Maybe we should just go home.” George agreed.
“Even if we do find them, we don’t know what their cunts will be like,” grunted the scruffy one.

The bartender poured Scotch for each of them. “Who are you looking for?” he asked.
“Oven women,” Harold grumbled. “But they probably don’t even exist.” His lips curled scornfully.
“Ha,” the bartender laughed, “you better bet they do exist.” He motioned for them to lean over the bar to get a closer look as he exposed his penis, patchy with burn scars. “My ex-wife is an oven woman. She and her sister live in near Barbes-Rouechart.”
“What about her cunt?” grunted the scruffy one.
The bartender shrugged. “A cunt is a cunt,” he replied as he polished the bar with a damp rag. The wheat-stalk-cock men exchanged glances. The bartender lowered his voice.

The men paid their bar tab and dashed to the metro, which they rode to Barbes-Rouechart. There, above a store that sold Berber dates and raw almonds, they found the barman’s ex-wife and her sister.

The sister opened the door; she wore a shift of translucent, sky blue silk. Her long flaxen tresses obscured her nipples. The ex-wife was completely naked and lie on a couch eating green grapes.

The men shuffled into the room. The scruffy one walked over to the couch and peered down at the ex-wife, whose hair was dark and shiny. He watched as she plucked a grape from the bunch and rolled it around on her tongue.

“What kind of cunt do you have?” he asked.
The ex-wife smiled, spread her legs, and showed them her cunt. The men were disappointed. Her cunt was no different from the cunts they irritated back home. They turned to go, but the ex-wife bade them to stop.

“Feel it,” she said. The wheat-stalk-cock men all looked at each other, suddenly afraid to touch this strange woman, whom they had traveled across the ocean to find.
Finally the scruffy one held out his hand. He hesitated for a moment, until she nodded to signal that it was all right, and he slipped his fingers into her cunt. It was like any other cunt, only the skin was like a milkmaid’s hand—tough and callused but still very warm—and when she tightened her muscles, it was like a fist.

The scruffy one groaned and unzipped his fly. He gently pushed her onto her back and shoved his wheat-stalk-cock into her. She received his thrust eagerly. Each time she squeezed the muscles of her tight-fist-cunt, he felt the heavy kernels of his load being culled from the stalk, and with each thrust pounded into fine flour. After her orgasm, he pulled out, and noticed that there was flour all over her vulva.
He laughed. The other men laughed. Finally, they had found women whose cunts were just right for their cocks.

The sister took George by the hand and led him to her bed. George sighed with pleasure as he felt her tight-fist-cunt relieve him of his load of kernels. The warmth from her oven soothed him like a summer whisper.

Harold laughed as tears trickled down his cheeks when it was his turn with the sister.

The scruffy one grunted and shared a cigarette with the ex-wife.

The others all had their turns, and all of them lived in the house with the sisters for months on end, smoking and fucking.


The mystery of the oven women was their ovens. Since they had never given birth before, no one knew what exactly could bake in their ovens, or how. But soon, it became apparent that the men provided their flour, and the women provided yeast and eggs, and that was enough to make a bread baby.

Nearly a year later, the sister gave birth to the first bread baby. She gave birth via Cesarean—the doctors cut through her skin to unlatch her oven. Everyone was astonished. The baby boy wriggled and cried just as much as any other baby, only he was made of bread. He had a dark sheen, as if he had been brushed with egg yolk. He suckled hungrily whenever his mother fed him. The wheat-stalk-cock men were proud to have a son. They would never have produced any children with the women back home.
When he was two months old, the sister went to his crib, and found crusts of bread all around him—the bread was merely a shell that fell away to reveal the pink skin of a normal, flesh and blood baby. The sister sighed with relief, but when she went to bathe her son, she noticed that the bread was gone from all parts of his body save one—his cock. The boy’s cock was a baguette.

By then, the ex-wife was due to give birth to her fist child, another baguette-cock boy.

The wheat-stalk-cock men worried about their baguette-cock sons; would their sons be as ruthlessly rejected by women as they had been? (This didn’t stop them from fucking the oven women and creating more baguette-cock boys.)

The first-born baguette-cock boy—Etienne—grew up to be very popular with the girls. He had his first girlfriend at thirteen, and got a blowjob from her without having coax or cajole her as his friends had done to their girlfriends. She couldn’t resist the smell of warm fresh bread, and he melted in her mouth. From then on, girls couldn’t resist his fresh baked smell, and they never hesitated to drop to their knees and use their lips, tongue and teeth. When it came time to fuck, the girls pointed their heels toward the ceiling, made V shapes with their legs and shouted, “Baise moi! Fuck me with your big baguette!”

Etienne met his first love during his second year at the University. Her name was Michelle, and when she got wet, her cunt dripped melted butter. Etienne discovered this on their second date, when she dared him to finger her while they shared a table at a café. She was already wet when he slipped his hand under her skirt; immediately his fingers were coated with something silky and hot. She casually sipped her water as he moved his fingers in and out of her, and the way she played it so cool while he played with her hot cunt made his baguette-cock harder than ever. Finally, he brought his fingers to his mouth and tasted: smooth, salty, and unmistakably buttery.

The next night, Michelle clamped Etienne’s face between her thighs as he lapped at her butter. After she came, she lifted his face in both hands and said, “Now I want you to fuck me. Hard.” Then, she lay on her back and threw her legs over his shoulders. He pounded her furiously, and the smell of fresh bread slathered with butter flooded the room. When they were finished, Etienne stroked butter-coated cock and sighed, “Michelle, we have to get married. Please.”

Meanwhile, one of the oven women finally gave birth to a daughter. She weighed six pounds and two ounces and had a jellyroll cunt. The wheat-stalk-cock men accused the oven woman of cheating.

“With whom?” the ex-wife countered. “If there are men out there whose cocks shoot raspberry jam, they are beating women off with sticks. They sure as hell wouldn’t have time to fuck us.”

But the wheat-stalk-cock men were furious, and they all stormed out the apartment and immediately flew home, abruptly ending their multiyear polyamory. The men were saddened to leave their sons behind, but left word with their mothers that the boys could join the men in Nebraska any time, knowing, as they hauled their luggage through Charles de Gaulle, that they never would.

As they grew older, Etienne’s baguette-cock brothers and cousins found nice girls to marry and settled down, but Etienne never recovered from Michelle’s refusal of his engagement ring, and so he became a legend among the women of Paris who hoped to bed the handsome bachelor with the baguette cock.

The jellyroll-cunt girl became a pop-singing sensation. She was also a lesbian. All the girls loved getting their tongues twisted in her spiral cunt, but she longed to meet a girl whose cunt tasted of espresso.

“Maybe in Italy,” she thought. And so off she went.