Life of a Lovesick Toaster

Every morning my Master has a breakfast of eggs, coffee, and toast. First comes the coffee. I get so jealous as he pours his water inside of the coffee maker, placing in all of the filters and coffee beans. I year for the attention Master gives the coffee maker, some days he stands there for minutes watching it; he never watches me.

Then the eggs. Master has no attachment to the frying pan, and leaves the stove to set the table. I grow excited, because my turn is next.

As always, Master pulls out the Wheat Bread only after everything is made. His coffee is poured, his eggs are cooling on his plate, and he approaches me with two slices of bread. He carefully places them in my slots, his fingers brushing against my metal body. Sparks surge through my cord and I am eager to begin. I want Master to go in further, I want his fingers to touch my innards. He pushes down on my lever and I begin growing hot, so hot that the bread cooks quickly inside of me.

In my rapture I fail to notice the Master. He is leaning against the counter, watching! Watching me! Not the damn coffee pot, but me! The toaster! I grow even hotter and the bread is burning inside of me. The heat is orgiastic and with a final wave of electricity the toast pops up, edges blackened and burnt.

“Again? Damn it.”

Master storms to the sink with a knife and scrapes off burnt crumbs. His reflection gleams off of my metallic surface and my insides have cooled almost immediately at his anger. He is so beautiful, even in rage, but I force down the heat in respect for his irritation. Why does he loathe me despite my love and the heat he causes in me just by being in my kitchen?

Master throws the toast on the plate and comes to me again. He unplugs me from the wall and takes me to his seat. The feeling of being in his lap is like being in heaven. Through his boxers I can feel the bulge of his manhood, limp against my metal but thick and powerful.

He tilts me against the table. “Maybe all you need is a cleaning,” he says.

Suddenly, his fingers are in my slots, flicking breadcrumbs from the coils and mechanics inside of me. Master touches me, pulls and pushes, fingers thrusting into me and cleaning me with the skill of a professional.

He finishes quickly, my crumbs scattered in his lap, and announces, “I’ll give you a second chance.”

Again he slips bread into me and plugs me in. I am able to heat up immediately from the frisk, but know that if I don’t control my burning zeal, I will never feel Master’s fingers inside of me again. I release early, giving my Master the perfect toast.

“Excellent!” he cries, before pulling out my plug, taking out the toast, and unexpectedly he kisses me on my metal surface.