One Flew over the Banyan Tree

Baking Jane, a moniker given to a handsome woman of around forty, prepared and sold breakfast to more-than-eager customers at Jellicoe Junction. It was convenient for people to buy cheap breakfasts from enterprising entrepreneurs like Baking Jane rather than labouring over preparing their own, especially as time was of the essence in the mornings in this working-class haven. Baking Jane’s breakfasts consisted solely of ‘hoppers’ – local pancakes of sorts with crisp outsides and soft centres – a national breakfast immensely popular in the country. A woman of great beauty in the past, Baking Jane still had a commanding hauteur and figure, although age was taking its toll – rotundness slowly replacing her disappearing figure-eight splendidness. She usually did her baking bare-breasted, clad only in a long skirt reaching down to her ankles, although she took good care to cover herself with a shawl whenever she spotted a younger client coming in through the front door or when she saw dubious persons whom she knew, from past experience, were only interested in making advances with the intent of bedding her. Her little house was one long corridor really, with small rooms on either side, enabling her to have a bird’s-eye view of anyone coming in. That ‘normal’ adult customers viewed her breasts, she gave a tinker’s curse about, even secretly enjoying her unintentional flashing at times. Her ovens did emit a great deal of heat, and her breasts enclosed in a brassiere were a terrible discomfort. This particular morning, her forehead and temples were covered in small beads of sweat, causing her to loosen the clasp of her sarong-like skirt and lift it up high to wipe off the moistness, momentarily forgetting the clean cloth she kept by her side for that very purpose. Whilst she was tying the slippery skirt back in place, the garment evaded her grabbing hands for a moment and fell low below her knees, falling right down to her feet. She retrieved it unhurriedly – serenely at ease – giving Bellakay, her sole customer present, a more-than fleeting glance of her beautifully formed frontal nudity. Tying it back again, the skirt evaded her grasp once more, showing off her splendid assets a second time around. She bent to pick up the skirt yet again, uttering a small oath under her breath, this time managing to tie it firmly back in place.

Bellakay was stunned, bowled over by the magnificent sight – especially Baking Jane’s somewhat bald vulva, which actually seemed to glisten with mysterious moisture. He was thunderstruck to note that his dear friend didn’t wear knickers, additionally surprised at his own arousal – surprised because he had trained himself over the years to purge women and coitus from his mind.