As I let myself in to her apartment I hear her fingers typing on her keyboard.
“Tip-tap-tippity-tap…”
She’s writing another white-hot erotic novel about love, sex, sex, love, and love and sex. God, I love a woman that can do that! She usually does her research by trying out her stories on me first, or me and some of our special friends.
“Tip-tap-tippity-tap…”
“He-looooo.” I call out to her. She knows it’s me, because I’m the only one with a key to her door. And her elsewheres, she tells me.
She’s so wrapped up in her typing she doesn’t respond other than with an “uh-huh!” grunt, her eyes firmly fixed on the monitor before her. She gets that way when she’s on deadline.
I go in the kitchen and put down the sack of groceries I picked up on the way over. The bottle of white goes in the freezer (DON’T FORGET THIS OR YOU’LL BE SORRY!!! I think to myself), and the butter comes out of the fridge for the garlic bread. The big pot of water goes on the stove for the pasta, and I open the jar of my own secret recipe spaghetti sauce. Actually, the secret is to use a lot of meat, mushrooms, and wine, but I’ll never tell.
If I know her, she’s been pounding away at that story since I left this morning. While we’re waiting for the water to boil it’s time for a break. I make enough noise so that she knows I’ve come into the room (she hates being surprised from behind). I don’t usually read over her shoulder, but I can’t help but see what she’s writing:
“His hungry hands sought her full heaving bosom, as her breath came noisily through her nostrils with noticeable excitement…”
Wordlessly, I stand behind her and gently place my hands on her shoulders, massaging them. “Ummmm!” she responds at first, then shakes me off and returns to her task.
“Moistening, she spreads her naked legs to him, inviting his entry. His massive member throbs before her slithering slit…”
“Come help me cook dinner.” I softly say.
“Uh-uh! Gotta finish this.” she replies.
Oh yeah? We’ll see about THAT. I know it’s not due until five tomorrow, and she’s already got enough material for TWO volumes already.
“Okay.” I say, but don’t add: “You asked for this!” I bend over and sweep her long, dark hair up and begin to nuzzle the little whispy hairs left at the back of her neck with my nose and lips.
She cringes and giggles. “Stop that!” she says, and tries to elbow me away, as I return to kiss that secret spot between her shoulders where she’s so ticklish. She squirms away. “I MEAN IT! I have to get this finished!”
Yeah, right. This time I do read over her shoulder, as I’m softly biting into it:
“He seizes her massive mams in his hands as he positions his pulsating pud to her well-primed pussy, preparing to pump her full of his powerful…”
“Tip-tap-tippity-tap…”
I hear her stop typing, relax and sigh as I take her breast in my hand and squeeze it gently. I kiss her neck and nibble at her earlobe, while reaching down with my other hand and slip it under the waistband of her running shorts, copping a feel of her fine, round ass. She collapses against me, and clutches my arm.
“Damn you, you aren’t going to take `no’ for an answer, are you?”
“No.”
She pulls back and looks up at me. “Yeah.” she muses. “Yeah…”
I reach over and press “Ctrl-S” to save her work, and then put my hands under her arms and lift her up out of her chair. She raises her arms and puts them around my neck. We kiss that kind of kiss that says both “Hello,” and “I wanna FUCK!” at the same time. I grab handfuls of her fine round ass (and it IS a “fine, round ass”) in both hands and pull her hips into my crotch, grinding my hardon into her. Yeah, like she doesn’t know already.
I hear the sound of the water come to a boil behind me in the kitchen, and I take her by the hand, leading her there.
Few things in life are as intimate and wonderful as sharing food together with your lover. She can cook, and cooks well. So can I, and many have declared that when it comes to spaghetti I have no equal. A little salad, garlic bread with parmesan, and a good chard or pinot taken together make aphrodesia.
Now it’s MY turn to be inconvenienced and interfered with. She keeps getting between me and the cutting board, or the stove (careful!) or the kitchen table to make out, or rub her butt into my crotch, or she’ll get behind me and press her tits into my back, grab my ass, or reach between my legs to squeeze my balls. I almost slipped and cut my finger off when she did as I sliced mushrooms. It would have been worth it, though.
I turned to her after everything was heating up in the pans and oven, and pulled up her T-shirt to reveal her fabulous boobs. I reached for the bottle of wine and poured a little over her nipple, then licked it off. Or sucked. Use your own verb, you know what I mean.
She drew her breath in through her teeth, and reached for my belt. In a moment, my trousers were on the floor in a heap, and she was rubbing me through my boxers, looking me in the eye like a panther about to strike.
Panthers are lethal cats, and so is she. Suddenly, she had the big French slicing knife in her fist, the huge stainless blade as big as an axe before my face. Before I could speak, she used it to slice away my boxers, leaving me naked from my waist to my ankles. My member was not only standing straight out, but was actually pointing UP a little, I was so aroused. THAT had NEVER happened before! Maybe I ought to fear for my life more often.
I leaned back against the chopping block, and considered the irony of that, as she knelt and opened her mouth to take me in. The stereo began playing Nat King Cole’s “Stardust,” and she paced herself slowly and languidly as she made oral love to my cock.
She licked, she stroked, she kissed, she sucked… She was a mistress of the art, and I was the clay in her…hands? Close enough. I closed my eyes and surrendered myself to her lips.
Dizzily, I turned to put the spaghetti into the now-boiling water, and stir the sauce so that it didn’t stick. This wasn’t as easy as it sounds, what with a woman glued to my prick, but I managed. Now it’s MY turn again. I pulled her up to stand, and pulled down her pants.
Ah, the sight of a woman’s naked body, or nearly naked in this case. Gotta fix that. I pulled her T-shirt over head, and was rewarded with that wonderful towseling of her hair as the shirt pulled away. She stroked her hair away from her face and looked at me with “that” smile, and I know I am lost in her.
I gaze down at my prize, her full breasts, her body as it narrows at the waist and then flares out again at her hips, wider even than her rib cage. Full, flaring hips, round and succulent from behind, her ass like the lobes of a ripe peach, all the visual signals that shout “FERTILITY!” and “FEMALE!” to me. A member of the “nubility” as it were.
Between her legs, the ultimate prize. What is it about a woman’s slit that can bring strong men to their knees? It’s just a little fold, the vulva round and smooth, because she is shaved, but there’s almost nothing to it at all, yet it is what we men fight wars for, fight each other for, are willing to die for.
And did I mention her legs? She has legs that would stop time itself. They’re on the slender side, not the full-and-a-little-on-the-heavy-side legs of a classical Greek-goddess type, but the long-slim-perfectly-curved legs of a dancer or a California surfer-girl. And she loves to show them off in heels, too. You can’t help BUT love a woman like that.
Today, since she’s been in the house all day she’s wearing flip-flops, and she kicks them off her pretty feet and steps out of the little red pile of cloth now on the floor around her ankles. She is now totally naked before me, with not even jewelry to obscure her velvet girl-skin. I quickly take off my shirt before she gets that knife idea again, kick off my shoes and peel my socks, then throw all the clothes out in the hall. We can pick them up later, there’s something else to do right now.
Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You, Baby” with its backtrack of her carnal moaning starts playing. My woman eyes me over too, before we wordlessly crash together again, our lips crushed tight, our tongues dancing together inside. For a few minutes, all we hear is “mmmfff!” and “ummmmfff!” and “unh!” or just plain “fffft!” as we clutch and cling to each other, as our cemented bodies catch fire.
“DING!!!” the timer rings, and we reluctantly part for a moment. She dries the wet from her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes never leaving mine. As for myself, I’m as hypnotized as a rabbit in her gaze. I’m about to turn to a hot stove, and fear she may jump me from behind when I do. How does fried cock taste? I reallyreallyreally don’t want to find out!
She sets the table and lights the candles as I serve up our dinner. For once I managed to make the bread come out ready at the same time as the pasta, and we sit to the table. Normally, we sit facing one another across, but I get a clever idea and sit next to her on her right this time. I feed her, and she feeds me, our hands groping one another under the table, and sometimes not under the table.
I’m surprised when she takes a handful of the sauce, and motions me to stand up. She reaches for my pole and slathers on the fragrant red sauce, then proceeds to suck it off, her hands doing wonderfully obscene things to my balls. When she finishes I sit, and return the favor on her tits with the buttery garlic bread. We’re going to smell to high Heaven, but we don’t care. Her breasts taste like they’ve never tasted before as I take her tits into my mouth and lick. I hear a grunt and look up to see her biting her lower lip, her eyes closed and eyebrows arched up from the pleasure I’m inflicting upon her. Sweet torture is the best.
This isn’t dining, it’s becoming a sexual food fight, and soon we’re both covered with sauce, spaghetti, bread crumbs, and Italian salad dressing: faces, necks, shoulders, tits, asses, cock and balls, cunts, thighs, shins, feet, arms and hands. It looks like we’re covered in blood from all that sauce, as we literally eat each other both figuratively and literally. I coat my finger in olive oil and slip it into her, but the oil wasn’t necessary. She’s already sopping wet and receptive. A few minutes of this and she’s cum several times, the last with another finger in her bung as well that caused her to spasm almost out of control. Can I cook, or can I cook?
The stereo has changed to Greg Lake singing “C’est La Vie” as I sit back down on my chair and she straddles me. She positions her pussy on my cock and impales herself ever so slowly on my rod. When she finally hits bottom we pause for a moment as we look up from watching our copulation to make eye contact. Then she begins to ride, sliding up and down, all the time holding unblinking eye contact. At last, her eyes close, her head drops back, and she arches her back like the cat in heat she is. She is peaking, she is ready, and that brings me to the brink of my own cum as well.
We go over together, and as we fall I release myself into her. She cries silently, which is a switch, because usually she’s noisy enough to set off car alarms. Her body jerks violently once, twice, three times or more as she climaxes, and I hold her tight to me, as she holds me tight to her, for dear life.
Coming back to earth, we hear the music change to “The Happy Organ” and giggle, then go quiet. We clutch to one another again and kiss, this time in celebration and gratitude. I hold her a long time, not moving, for there is much warmth to be given and shared in the afterglow.
Neither wants to move. Neither wants to be the first to break this embrace. Neither wants this supper ever to end.
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