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Javert scowled as he looked the youth up and down. Red lips, dark curls, a sultry smile—clearly here to sell. The features were familiar too: this was Montparnasse, whom Javert had observed once before, but failed to indict of a murder he had been implicated in. Unfortunately, Montparnasse was also clearly human, and thus, not what Javert had come to this part of Paris for. Lately, with the emigration of sexually promiscuous living pastries from America to Europe, pastry prostitution had become a real problem, and Javert was determined to once and for all find and put an end to an especially licentious club, Richard's Rutting Religieuses.
“What are you looking for, old man?” Montparnasse asked, turning a little to display himself better in the light of the streetlamp that shone on this alley.
“Nothing you can give me,” Javert said after a moment and began to move on. The youth's arm shot out, and Javert clenched his jaw, preparing to brush off the impertinent hand until he became aware of what looked like a fine dusting of powdered sugar on Montparnasse's coat. He took a closer look at him. Definitely human, yes... But maybe Montparnasse had switched trades and moved from murder to illegal living pastry trafficking?
“I promise there's nothing you can want I couldn't give you,” Montparnasse said, and Javert smiled grimly, pleased that his disguise proved so efficient.
“I haven't come to buy. I'm looking for dinner. I feel like something sweet today.”
“There's a baker around the corner,” Montparnasse said with studied boredom. “Croissants, beignets, pain au chocolat...”
“I'm looking for something a little more... gay,” Javert said, and Montparnasse pursed his lips, studying him from sharp, dark eyes.
“Pastry prostitution is illegal,” he said. “Says so right in the Code Napoléon.”
Javert gave him a humorless smile. “I won't tell if you won't.”
“What's in it for me?” the youth demanded, still leaning against the wall with pretended nonchalance, although he snatched up the franc Javert tossed him with the reflexes of a sharp-toothed predator.
“Follow me, old man.”
There was indeed a baker around the corner, and in its window, Javert noticed the tell-tale sign of a mysterious round symbol—the wanton shape of the exotic donuts that had made their way here from America in the past few years, after they had been outlawed there for their promiscuous ways.
Once they were inside, Montparnasse gave the baker a nod. A curtain was pushed aside, and a door behind the curtain was opened, and soon Javert found himself making his way down a narrow stair behind Montparnasse. When they reached the bottom of the stair, another door awaited, and once this door was opened, too, Javert took a deep breath.
A grin of terrible triumph appeared on his face as at last, he found himself eye to eye with the most sordid of the underground Living Pastry Prostitution clubs. The debauchery that met him was unbelievable. Virile pastries flaunted their bodies no matter where he looked. An éclair with a mustache and a huge dick was floating near a wall, with two men on their knees before him, alternating sucking on the giant pastry dick as if they were competing for the sweet chocolate filling he would soon shoot from his balls. To the right, a choux pastry was ramming into the butt of another gentleman who was moaning in ecstasy at the hard pounding from the glistening, buttery gay confection.
Next to him, an exotic, glazed donut with a thick covering of coconut shavings made Javert's mouth water for a moment. The gay donut was stroking his enormous dick with tiny, baked hands and giving him a suggestive look that made Javert swallow and wonder what it would feel like to suck the coconut filling out of his balls. Javert's prick stirred at the thought, and the sensation reminded him at last of his purpose.
He had his gun in his pocket, and handcuffs ready. This was the moment of his triumph. As sweet as these sinful pastries might taste, Javert was not here to indulge sordid desires. He was the law. And the law said that Unlicensed Living Pastry Prostitution was an illegal act, and to be strictly punished.
He reached into his pocket. He curled his fingers around the iron of the cuffs. He looked around, deciding that the muscular choux pastry would have to be cuffed first, for his chest was broad with rippling muscle and he would certainly prove to be the most troublesome pastry—and then a newcomer arrived. Javert's mouth went dry at the vision of mouthwatering manliness that filled his sight.
It was a madeleine, and the buffest pastry Javert had ever seen. Open-mouthed, Javert stared at the expanse of the madeleine's bare chest, a gorgeous plane of muscled sponge in the traditional shell-like shape that made his prick stiffen and his balls ache. The madeleine was naked. His delectable dick was enormous and fully hard, giving off a delicious aroma of almonds and lemon zest. Javert swallowed as he stared at it with glazed eyes, then pulled his empty hand out of his pocket again.
It wouldn't hurt if just this once, he took his time. And he'd always had a weakness for madeleines.