"Could you pass me the butter, please?" she asked, barely looking up from the counter. She was, after all, very busy with her fingers. In her left hand, a nine-inch blade; in her right, an onion.
I couldn't figure out what she needed with the butter, but she was gloriously naked and I was not about to question her motive. I set the butter dish next to her hip, grazing her curve with my fingertips as I watched her dice the onion. With a deft move, hardly interrupting the rythym of the knife, she dipped two fingers of her right hand into the long slab of daffodil-hued fat and scooped up a glob of the tasty oil. She spread the thick delicious butter, liberally, across her bare chest, from nipple to nipple, then turned to face me. "Lick it off," she ordered.
Her breasts, oh her breasts! Those muffins, those dinner rolls, those perfect butterhorns sitting high on her ribs, advertising their brash availability, screaming for lips! There they were, singing to me, butter nearly dripping off the nipples. Her hands were planted on the counter behind her. She offered her tits to me like a couple of hot croissants, steaming out of the oven. Voraciously, I dined, licking the thick oil off her as if she were a quickly-melting swirl of vanilla ice cream on a sweltering Midwestern summer's day. I licked everywhere, and fast, under the dough-soft curves of her tits, over the tops, around the sides, then all over those crouton-hard nipples. I licked until I was nearly delirious with butter and flesh.
She watched, approving. Her stomach tightened and her pussy pulsed. She rocked, gently, on her bare feet, her toes gripping at the hard, cool, linoleum floor. She loved me, she loved how I worshipped her. I did. She watched my tongue, the way its muscular searching dented the skin that stretched across her chest. She watched my forehead, my eyebrows, my nose, my fluttering eyelids, my eyes, the smirk on my face. When I sucked a buttery button into my mouth, she noticed the dimple in my cheek that always signaled devious intent, and fun. By the time the butter had been lapped up, replace by a thin coating of my saliva, she felt weak. But, she wasn't. She turned around toward the counter, forked a tablespoon of butter into the frying pan, then swept the chopped onion off the cutting board and into the pan on the stove. Into that she tipped a bowl of chipped beef. As the butter melted and flowed, on low heat, she stirred the beef and onions together, mixing the sweet salty pungent flavors together into a complementary whole. The kitchen swelled with the scent of a home.
She turned toward the butter on the counter. It accepted her fingers. Again, they shoved into the softening mass and pulled away, dripping with grease. They dropped into her bare crotch, spreading the golden oil from hole to clit. She glistened in the soft light of the kitchen. "Lick it off," she commanded.
I, of course, fell to my knees, praying before the shining flesh that she thrust, wantonly, in my face. Again, she placed both hands on the counter behind her, to steady herself. She spread her smooth legs and pressed her pelvis out toward my searching tongue. She pushed toward me as if her hard clit was as long as my cock, as if she could press it deep into my throat. Her butter-slathered button stood out like a escargot, warm and wet. Escargot in cum and white wine.
My face was covered in pussy butter as she raised up on her toes, poised to dissolve in wracking orgasm. Suddenly, however, she remembered the chipped beef and onions. The concoction had to be tended to. I was left there, on my knees, face drenched, as I watched her step away to the stove. As she stirred, I stroked my cock. As she stirred, I stood and slathered butter over my cock and balls until they slid away from my fingers. As she stirred, I spread her glorious ass cheeks, slathered butter around the opening to her body and drove into her. She stirred onions and chipped beef as I spewed into her, and her screams flew up the oven vent and through the roof.