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Maple sighed quietly as she turned off the final oven in the kitchen of her bakery, The Maple Oven. As much as she loved her job, sometimes it really did take it out of her; standing in a hot kitchen all day, running back and forth between customers and the counter, was a lot of work for one old mother. She emerged from the kitchen, locking the front door and turning the little sign on the front from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’, a relieving feeling washing over her as it usually did.

And so her post-work routine began.

Maple stood at 48 years old and just over five feet tall, with inky black hair that fell to just above her shoulders. It was lightly curled, enough to have a bit of shape - although said curls were usually out of shape with the heat of the kitchen. A pair of healthy D-cup breasts poured from her chest, lightly sagging with her age and capped with pink nipples. A chubby stomach, showing she sampled her own cinnamon buns just a touch too much during culinary school in the city, and just below her paunch was a dark sheath, packed full, fueled by the leathery sack below. Her balls were rather heavy, and a bit bigger than a regular stallion of her age. They looked almost like a pair of oranges in a sock, barely enough to keep them contained.

While walking into the main room of the bakery to start picking up plates, the chubby equine began to unbutton her white shirt from the top-down, eventually freeing her breasts to the warm air of the building. Of course, it was empty, and the curtains were closed, so there was no fear of being seen in such a state. But either way, being exposed in her place of business - no matter whether there were people to see her or not - always added a bit of thrill to the comfort. Soon enough that shirt was fully unbuttoned, and pulled up and out from being tucked into her skirt. She tossed it haphazardly onto a clean chair, ready to be put in the laundry.

Maple put a brief pause on her undressing to pick up a few dirty plates, taking them into the kitchen. While there, she kicked her shoes off and nudged them toward the connected laundry room. A warm, extremely familiar scent wafted up as the smell of her own feet reached her nose - it wasn’t an unpleasant one, of course. All par for the course, and part of the routine. Taking a moment to inhale slightly to catch it in her nose, she smiled to herself and went back out into the main room. With one item of clothing left, she hooked her thumbs around the elastic of her skirt and pulled it down to her legs, letting it drop to her bare feet and hit the floor.

The sensation of cooler air brushing over her sagging balls was palpable, and she audibly let out a little sigh. She honestly wished that she could just work like this - although the families who came in to visit probably wouldn’t appreciate a chubby 48-year-old woman walking around with her sweaty ass in their face. Most of them, anyway.

The skirt was tossed onto the same chair as her shirt, and she continued her little patrol around the room to pick up the dirty dishes while feeling those balls brushing against the short fur on her thighs. Again, what she was doing wasn’t inherently erotic, but her body knew what this led to. On an almost circadian rhythm, her sheath began to swell just slightly in anticipation. Not enough for the dark shaft within to make an appearance, but just enough that she could feel the light tingles of arousal starting to amass within her groin.

Maple brought the dishes into the kitchen, setting them in the sink to soak to make them easier to wash later. With a little nod and a smile, the first part of her routine was done! And so she walked out of said kitchen, wearing nought but a confident, relieved little smile, and sat herself down on a couch in the lounge area of the bakery.

For a few minutes, she just sat there, taking a much-needed rest from being on those tired old feet all day. But a warm pressure down below reminded her that she indeed had a routine, and duty calls! So with a sigh she leaned forward, looking down at the sheath steadily swelling up, and the moist balls beyond. Those weren’t her first target, though - she pulled her leg up, resting it on the other, and leaned down. Delicately taking her foot in two hands, she angled it up and held her snout down.

“Let’s see how I smell today…” she wondered quietly, a question she was about to answer with gusto.

She hovered her snout just above her toes and inhaled slowly, filling her lungs with the vinegary smell of her own feet. It was hard to hold in the light groan that escaped her throat on the exhale, and she smiled. “Very good, it seems!” she answered her own question with a light giggle and helped herself to another sample. As she breathed in and out, savouring each musty waft that flooded her nares, she honestly wished she could just do this all day. She was jealous of canines and felines, who were flexible enough that they could do this until pigs could fly, but especially in her older age her legs inevitably got tired before long.

Maple was nothing if not adamant, though, and held onto that foot to take in as much of that scent as possible - evidence of a good, long day of hard work. By the time she was done, that otherwise dormant cock had already swollen up so it was resting on her pudgy stomach, pressing the soft flesh down with its weight. Of course, there was still much to go. Resting that slightly aching leg back down to the floor, the mother spread her legs just that bit wider, and reached a calloused, lightly flour-dusted hand down to cup the heavy balls between. She could immediately feel how slick the skin was, making her fingers and palm clammy after a few moments. She massaged them at first, smiling at the pleasing and relaxing sensation.

Maple’s balls were one of her erogenous spots - she could (and has) came just from rubbing them and the attention given to them before. And today was no different, as that aged hand roamed over the swollen, sweaty orbs that had less than an hour ago been handing over plates of cinnamon buns and muffins, she let out a pleased sigh. And of course, the fruits of her labour thereafter. She brought that hand up, seeing the moisture on her palm and fingers, and brought it up to hover over her nares. The same as her foot, she breathed in slowly and deeply. The scent here was much more masculine, and laced with pheromones that made her heart race in her chest.

Now, she wasn’t a narcissist at all. Heck, she didn’t even think that greatly of herself! But for some odd reason, even since she was young, she had been absolutely enamoured with what her own body could produce, in more ways than one. It had come from a book she’d read that helped her learn how to ‘love her own body’. But it seems it was taken just a tad too far; she’d have to be told off a lot when she was younger for masturbating in the front room of the house, walking around naked, and offering to show relatives her ‘funny holes’. One could easily tell she’d grow up to be an exhibitionist.

As these memories ran through her mind and her lungs were filled with the humid smell of her own balls, that shaft on her belly was soon a shaft on her midriff and chest, until finally it was fully erect. At almost two feet long, the chubby mom’s dick was almost a betrayal of her character - she was this polite, warm, motherly old mare that for whatever reason, had a cock that most breeding stallions would be jealous of. It made sense why she didn’t wear underwear, it being much too big to really keep in a pair of panties, and… well, boxer shorts would work, but it still added to that thrill that a customer could see a pair of nuts peeking out below the hem of her skirts if she dropped a bit of cutlery through her shift.

She mulled over this thought as she uncupped her snout free from her palm’s musty prison and rest her hand back down on her thigh, peering down at the dark horsecock that sat comfortably between her breasts. With a little smile, it was finally time to start the real part of the routine. A good, old-fashioned milking. Maple leaned back against the couch fully, feeling the weight of her dick on her chest. Her snout nuzzled down into the tip of her blunt erection, sniffing gently to take in the musk of her own cock, and then her lips parted to let a tongue brush gently against it. The salty taste of sweat hit the mother’s mouth, and she couldn’t help but let a light groan escape her throat. It was like an appetiser of sorts, ready for the main course that she so willfully sought day in and out.

One hand held the bottom of her cock, just above her balls to keep the fat thing steady; with the weight of it, it was difficult to keep it still sometimes, especially near the climax of her routine. The other went to the medial ring, holding it just a little tighter. A squeeze she could feel, but not one that would deliver more pleasure than she wished at the moment. The old mother gazed down, almost longfully at her own dark penis, while her nostrils flared to better intake the savoury smell of cock sweat she’d built up through the day. Her tongue extended again, eyes fluttering closed as she sampled over and over the very same thing she’d been tingling her olfactory senses with.

It was hard for her to think about much other than just how delicious her own dick was, but the thoughts that did go through her mind were quite… Well, tame. She thought about whether she checked the door was locked, whether she’d already had the week’s grocery delivery today or not… and part of her thought about what she’d be doing for the next season, the array of treats she’d had jotted down in her little notebook of culinary ideas. It was an odd mixture of feelings the old mother felt during this part of her day. Yes, she did have to fight the temptation to just shove her dick as far down her own throat as she could while burying her snout into one of her shoes, but it also was a mighty good way of helping her focus. Some of her best treats and seasonal specials were conceived while she was sucking the precum out of her urethra like a straw.

With her cock nice and stable in one hand, the one at the base gently roamed lower with the intention of refreshing the sweat on her fingers; it gently kneaded into the soft, yet leathery skin, the short fur on her hand being once more moistened by the perspiration on her genitals. Yet, it went lower. One knee bent to lift up, and her tail moved out of the way to expose the prize beneath. Her asshole.

Now, the phrase ‘saving the best for last’ was a commonly heard one, especially being in the culinary business. However, Maple always thought it was most appropriate when she was saving the intense smell of her own sweaty donut until the end of the day to snort like her life depended on it. She didn’t just rub into the outside, two fingers actually pushed past the experienced hole to delve within, fingernails scraping just enough into her inner walls to get those sweaty toes curling a tad. A low grunt resounded from her throat, and she reluctantly pulled from her now saliva-moistened cockhead, leaving a gooey spit-precum bridge between it and her lips to put her focus down below.

Her eyes finally fluttered open, though unfocused from the miasma of senses being stimulated at once.