I stand behind you at the stove, my bare chest against your shoulders, guiding your hands as we break down the colorful vegetables: a bright red pepper, and one of vibrant green, removing the tops and bottoms, making them into strips; unwrapping the outer layer from a firm round onion, slicing them into flavorful bits and sliding them into the greased pan. I clasp my hand over yours to protect it from the honed edge of the knife as we dice and slice the ingredients, preparing them for cooking.
Next, we take the bulging mushrooms, rinsing the cap, rubbing our fingers over the top to clean them before we make two quick strokes across and toss them into the pan. One falls from my grip and I quickly retrieve it, popping it into your mouth as you moaningly sigh in enjoyment. I hand you the salt grinder and command you to twist, myself making two twists for every one of yours as we bathe the pan with light and dark speckles
My arms brush against your skin through the apron as we peel and chop the firm potatoes, disrobing them to expose to the soft inner surfaces. The rocking motions becoming second nature, varying the depth to change the amount we push towards to edge of the board. I remove my hand from yours, allowing you to finish the preparation and immerse the soft lumps of starch to the sizzling butter
The pale flesh softens as they cook, blushing with caramelization while the temperature rises at their core. I guide your hands, swirling the potatoes around the pan the, the solid flat wooden turner moving them back and forth. I correct your technique, slowing your movements as a few searing drops accidentally splash onto your inner arms and chest
I lick the greasy dribble from your skin before they can slide any further, then resume my place behind you taking one egg after another, plunging down at the edge of the bowl, then spreading the shell as the wet yolks splatter on the bottom.
Handing you the long slender handle of the whisk, I direct your hand as we circle the bowl, slowly at first, then more rapidly, a few stray strings oozing down the sides. As you continue these strokes, I add some creamy white milk to the container, blending it into a thick slurry.
The aromatics reach their peak tenderness, and in one smooth motion I guide your hand up, cupping the smooth bottom of the bowl, tilting it to gently envelop the still firm strips in an off white layer of liquid, tempering the heat and preserving their stiffness with the sudden shock of coolness.
Placing a large, flat spatula in your grip, we shove it under the cooking potatoes, fused together by their sticky juices, and flip them onto their backside, allowing them to finish taking in the heat of the surface. I point your index finger down the handle, guiding the instrument as we scrape the thickening omelette. I take extra care not to let anything slip out or go to waste until we finish.
Now, able to move everything together, we gingerly lift the bottom and turn it face down. We take handfuls of the stringy cheese, swiftly pulling it from the bag, and let it cascade over the back of the omelette. It languidly melts into the tender skin of the melange, now slick with moisture from the heat. Arranging the soft white round potatoes on a platter, we slide the eggs next to them. With a flick of our wrists in unison, we remove the searing pan from underneath letting them fall. Taking a handful of fragrant herbs, we dress the dish, preparing it to serve.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/7uzcao/scrambled_eggs_mf_nosex