Christy's Cream-Filled Surprise

Christy loved being in the kitchen. She’d whisk, beat, and knead all day if she could, enjoying the warmth of the space and the way it made her feel… alive. Today was special. She had invited her neighbors over for a taste of something she hadn’t shared in a long time... her signature cream pie.

She licked her spoon with a slow, deliberate swirl, her tongue tracing the edge as she giggled, watching a drop of whipped cream slip off the tip. “Oops,” she murmured. “I guess I got a little too excited with the filling.” The cream had to be just right. Light, yet firm. Sweet, but with a little tang. Christy was determined to get it perfect. She grabbed her beaters and gave them a good pounding against the bowl.

“Nothing like getting your arms moving first thing in the morning,” she said, panting a little. “Gotta whip it till it peaks, nice and stiff.” She bent low to check her form, eyes narrowing in concentration. Perfect texture. The kind of fluff you just wanted to bury your face in.

The crust was buttery and golden, just the way she liked it—tight and firm, yet ready to receive a generous helping of her rich, velvety cream. “Let’s get you nice and full,” Christy whispered, pouring the warm filling deep into the shell. “Mmm, look at you taking it all...”

Just as Christy slid her pie into the oven, she noticed a little leftover cream still clinging to her spatula. She ran her finger along the edge, scooping it up with a slow, circular motion. “Mmm. Still warm,” she moaned softly. “Maybe next time I’ll drizzle a little more on top. I do like things overflowing.”

Thirty minutes later, the heat had done its work. The crust had risen, just slightly around the edges, and the cream bubbled underneath, thick and ready to burst. Christy opened the oven, gripped her mitts tightly, and slipped the pie out slowly, carefully, lovingly. “Oh, you’re firm and golden,” she whispered to the crust. “Just how I like it. You held all that cream so well.”

Later that night, the guests gathered around the table, forks in hand, eyes wide, mouths watering. Christy placed the pie gently in the center of the table. “Dig in,” she purred. “Don’t be shy, there’s plenty to go around. And if you need a second helping... well, I always come prepared.”

There were groans. Moans. A few people begged for the recipe. “You really went all in on the filling, huh? It’s practically bursting,” her neighbor said, smirking. Forks were lifted. Cream met lips. Silence fell, followed by muffled groans and the scrape of forks against plates. “I usually don’t go for cream, but I’d take a mouthful of that any day,” one guest said, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. The guests were full—plates wiped clean, bellies warm, and smiles lazy. The room smelled like vanilla, toasted crust, and just the faintest hint of temptation.