I see you standing over the kitchen table. Your “kiss the cook” apron draped over worn out blue jeans and white v-neck tee. There’s nothing sexier than a man who knows his way around the kitchen. I linger in the background for a moment, wanting so badly to fuck with you, but it’s Thanksgiving and we both know my cooking is tragic.
So I make myself comfy on the sofa and quietly admire your handiwork from afar. You’re so fucking hot. So confident and calculated in your movements. My pussy throbs with envy as I watch you stuff the turkey. I imagine your fingers inside me. One slow, gentle thrust after another. I mirror your rhythm with my pelvis, grinding my pussy into the seam of my jeans. Fuck it. Lose the jeans. I lay back onto the arm of the sofa and part my legs.. then my lips. I’m so wet.
I continue to mirror your actions, rubbing my clit slowly and deliberately as you begin rubbing oil over the skin of the bird. I drag my finger across my lips and lick them slowly, savoring the flavor of my own personal marinade. Mmm. I have to have you.