Barefoot and bare-ass naked in the kitchen.
Your floury, fragrant fingers shape each cookie so lovingly. Or perhaps you’re an Asian girl, making me potstickers,
pinching each one closed around garlicky filling. It’s meditative work and you can’t stop meditating about my cock, how stiff and erect it gets for you, how happy you could make it in this state. Your work becomes a surrogate for pleasing me. Another bit of dough, another dab of jam.
All the while there are the apron strings, teasing and frustrating you. They dangle from the knot at the small of your back. With your movements they brush and tickle your ass, your crack, right *in* your crack, reminding you how naked you are save for your apron. It’s ridiculously obscene, of course, cooking this way as if your only other real role in the house is to fuck.
Only … that’s kind of the way it actually is.
Max comes in, nails clicking on the tile, pauses. *Hi Max.* He gives an understanding big-dog whimper. He loves you, just as his master does. Another cookie (or potsticker). Growing tension. You find yourself touching between your thighs, in the gap there, reaching through enough for him to see your fingers, leaving the smell of cookies or spicy filling, enticing him, looking over your shoulder at his cocked head.
When the cold nose touches there you gasp and nearly cry out. It becomes a laugh. He pokes harder, rooting. So cold and pointy, so moist. *Max!!* Your elbows hit the counter and your bare toes curl into the kitchen rug. Then comes the very warm loose tongue, methodically licking because you smell and taste nice down there. You close your eyes, plant your feet farther apart on the rug, bend your knees a little for him. If only he would lap and lap, minutes at a time. Your fingers instinctively begin trying to shape another cookie. The lapping is the only sound in the kitchen. So stupid, all this. Naked but for an apron, newly showered, the afternoon of your day off, hornier than a three-balled tomcat, on the verge of cumming from your man’s dog’s tongue, more elementally happy than you have ever been.
“Do you think I’m your bitch Max? You bad boy.”
It’s all too brief. He snorts, shakes his metal tag and departs. The nails click away and you’re left cold and wanting.
The oven beeps, ready for your offerings.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/9f6kak/max_just_a_quick_little_interlude_from_mr_leppard