The Cinnamon Tart (a Liza story)

 20/25

This is the newest cap from my Aiko series, which is in full on my index page

There was little doubt Liza's step-dad was having the most surreal day of his life, and it wasn't because he was making a fruit tart for the first time. He tried desperately to block out the scene playing in his kitchen by concentrating on arranging blueberries on top of the dessert but it was just too much. How could he possibly ignore the fact he was stuffed into a French-maid's dress and stockings whilst over-seeing the most bizarre tea-party in history? How could he ignore the tremendous itching in his scalp under his wig and on his face under the thickly layered makeup? Not to mention the fact his son, Shaun, was skulking around in a matching maid's outfit with a feather duster and his step-daughter was wandering around wearing a t-shirt with a Japanese girl's face printed on and doting on two neighbourhood boys sat at the dining table. Not to mention the thrum that encapsulated his body in a raw craving for whatever it was Liza had given him earlier – a craving so intense and insatiable, he would do anything to quell it.

For all the strangeness that followed, things had started very routinely. Mike, Liza's step-dad, had started his day as he always did, by cooking himself a large omelette and bagel for breakfast. The problem had begun when he added his secret ingredient to the omelette – a sprinkle of cinnamon. He quickly realised this ingredient was not a secret at all and in fact, Liza had swapped it out for something else entirely. As soon as he finished his breakfast, he began to sweat and breathe heavily and a desire to inhale a roomful of that sweet powder burned in him like a fire. Only, on returning to the kitchen, he found the tub gone – replaced with written instructions to return to his room.

Liza had been waiting for him, the maid's outfit over one arm and her camera around her neck. She had explained sweetly that it was nothing personal but unless he wanted to go through the entire day shivering and itching like a drug addict, he would put the dress on. He had resisted at first, but Liza just smiled patiently and waited. It took fifteen minutes for him to break and when he did, he pulled on the stockings with such frenetic torment you would have thought he had snakes writhing beneath his skin. Once dressed, Liza gave him just enough 'cinnamon' so he could stop shaking and then went to work on covering his face with cosmetics. The wig followed, as did the photos, along with the promise that his supply of cinnamon would cease if he didn't comply.

Mike realised he could draw out his tart preparation no longer, and placed the final blueberry on the pastry. He turned to carry it over to the table where the boys were sitting, hoping he could get there and back quick enough to avoid their stares.

“Wait,” Liza stopped him, smiling sweetly. “Just one more thing.” She produced a small tub marked 'cinnamon' and sieved it over the tart. “There, much better.” Mike gulped and tried hard not to sniff the fresh topping, it would only spike his desire to bury his face in it. He brushed a little powder from his white gloves and carried the tart over to his step-daughter's unsuspecting guests. Enjoy, he thought, trying to catch their eye. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass table and dropped his head in shame. Enjoy, because what comes next won't be as easy to swallow...