Author: pure_dumb_luck

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. Read more »

*I’m fucking. No, he’s fucking me. He’s FUCKING me. No, we’re fucking. WE are fucking. Right now this instant. I am getting fucked. This is what it feels like to fuck.*

Strangely, you were not even thinking these words when you started, on top of him, riding on him like he was some great animal at a long-ago farm visit, or dome of sun-warmed metal at a playground, or unfamiliar-yet exciting vehicle at an amusement park, where foam-wrapped bars clamped all around your body to hold you pinned and trapped so the ride could do whatever it was designed to do to you.

At that time you could concentrate only on stretching and opening, holding your breath lest it take some of the precious space you needed to accommodate him, feeling your delicate skin stretch to membrane-thinness around him, the muscles stretch to and beyond their furthest extent, feel the strange pop and dark huge invasion of yourself, going up and up and up into uncharted regions, in an inch, withdrawing … in again and an inch deeper … receding again … back farther than ever … back out … deepest yet so that you gasped and cringed and he inquired close and softly in your ear if you were going to be okay … Read more »

The intervening days have been so normal. He has been pleasant and business-as-usual with you, although every time you are in his presence you feel that half of you hangs wide open and unhinged, exposed and vulnerable, hopelessly compromised. You find yourself staring at him in sweet pain, waiting for him to acknowledge what you did, what happened. He never does. Finally one night after dinner, in the kitchen, when you have finished washing the dishes and he comes in to place the empty wine bottle in the trash. He stops to gaze at you and his eyes capture yours just as surely as his hand caught your wrist that morning, so that you cannot move or escape until something is said or done. The sensation of him staring into your eyes is like falling from a cliff or facing an approaching wave at the beach, the outrushing water dragging dizzyingly on the backs of your knees and threatening to suck you down and out to sea.

He only raises a hand to the side of your face and tucks your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing your cheek. He says, so beautiful!, looks a moment more, then leaves with a slight smile while you twist and dangle in the gale, in the tumbling power of the broken wave, buffeted by water and sand, standing there in your apron. Read more »