Wednesday, November 25, 2009


“God, put that thing away,” she said, as she flipped the sheets over his still rigid cock. He lay there, a tent poking toward the ceiling, while she caught her breath. After about six bouts of flailing arms and legs, and howling into the walls and pillows, she’d had enough. Or, so he thought.

He looped his left arm around her shoulders and hauled her in, cradling her head against his chest. He stroked her hair and kissed her perspiring forehead, listening to the gradual slowing of her breathing. Her left leg draped across him and he could feel her belly against his side, expanding, contracting, easing, relaxing. “I’ll go make some coffee,” he said softly, and eased away from her to walk down the hallway and into the kitchen.

No sooner had he left her side than she reached to the light stand, next to the bed and grabbed the vibrator and dildo. Beneath the cocoon-warm comforter, she shoved the dildo deep into her still-pulsing hole and pumped to the rhythm of his last performance. With the vibrator on her almond-sized clit, she brought herself to yet another orgasm before he could return. Sheepishly, she smiled as he entered the room. He knew what she had been up to, gauging by the flurry of activity under the blankets as she tried to hide the toys. He smiled and settled in beside her, kissing her neck and fondling her greedy nipples.

“Are you a horny girl,” he asked, in a taunting tone. She nodded her head and spread her legs as his hand ran down to sample the juiciness of her crotch. “Hmmmm…..let’s see,” he teased, as his fingers unleashed a barrage of flicks and rubs and runs across her labia and clit. Immediately, her breath was drawn away and her head spun, as the spasms started to build inside of her thighs. As the tension approached the snapping point, he stopped. “Wait! I have an idea!” And he scurried into the bathroom, leaving her buzzing.

When he returned, grinning wickedly, one hand was behind his back. “Close your eyes,” he ordered. “And spread those legs,” he ordered again. She did as she was told. It didn’t take long for her to realize that the sensuously curved object that he slid into her was the handle of her hairbrush. After that, it was the carrot, then the handle to the screwdriver, then the cool bratwurst, then the summer sausage, then the hammer grip. Every new tool, a new sensation. She lurched and bucked in orgasm, over and over, until he ran out of ideas. Then, she had ideas of her own and she started roaming the house, looking for things to insert into her seeping crotch.

He reclined in bed and watched, as fruit and vegetables and tools and utensils competed to finish the job that he, obviously, could not finish. It was, he determined, humanly impossible to satisfy this woman. Finally, after what seemed like hours and dozens of orgasmic feats, he pinned her to the bed. “Stay,” he ordered. “I have one more thing for you.” He left the room and returned a few moments later, with another wicked grin on his face and a hand behind his back. “Close your eyes,” he ordered. She did as he was told. He sat on her chest, his hot balls resting between her breasts.

“When I was a kid,” he started, “we had a kitten that just couldn’t keep out of trouble. The little bastard would claw all of the furniture and rip electric cords out of sockets and tear bags of rice open and, generally, make a big mess. My mom decided to knit some kitten mittens and tie them onto the little kitten’s feet, so it wouldn’t hurt itself and everything else.”

He reached out and placed a thick leather mitten over each of her hands.

“There, now you have your kitten mittens,” he said. Then, he slid his still rigid cock down the length of her belly and impaled her pussy.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Making Soup

“Cooking is an act of love,” he said, as he stood naked in the kitchen, chopping the vegetables that would go into the chicken noodle soup.

She loved watching him, in the soft glare of the overhead lights, his shoulders moving from side to side, in rhythm with the knife. From time to time, he’d peer over the rims of his glasses, a smirk on his face. He knew, just by looking at the position of her body and the rising of her chest, that she was wet.

The chopping of carrots and onions and celery and broccoli took some time. She tried to read the paper as she listened to the methodical clack of the knife blade against the wooden cutting board. Her eyes tracked the same sentence, over and over. Her mind absorbed none of it. She simply wanted to fuck him.

He continued, “Some people look at cooking as drudgery. I just don’t understand that. I absolutely LOVE cooking for other people and, especially, for people I love. I’m doing something for them and making them feel good. What could be better?”

He looked up from the cutting board and caught her legs apart in his gaze. Scooping the vegetables into a bowl, he cleaned off the cutting board and moved it aside. “Come here, a second,” he said.

She walked toward him, taking him in; his long strong legs, his broad chest, his naked feet, his slightly arching cock. When she was close enough, he reached out and grabbed her hair in one hand, while the other reached around to fondle her ass. He kissed her, long and deep, savoring her breath and her spit and the full buoyancy of her lips. Then, he bent low, draped his arms beneath her ass and lifted her onto the kitchen counter.

Her pussy was his. It fell open like a flower in morning dew, waiting for the warmth of his mouth. She watched as he fell to his knees and opened his mouth and took all of her inside. On the stove, the steam of boiling chicken rose into the air. She was back in her grandmother’s kitchen, smelling the comfort of home, the musty cook books, the crisp tang of garden-fresh vegetables. She closed her eyes and imagined floating in a bowl of warm egg noodles, squishing them between her legs, feeling them squirm across her nipples. His tongue and lips were incessant, insistent, maddening. Her legs draped over his muscular shoulders and she leaned back as the hot soup within her rose to the surface. She wanted to cook for him, feed him, flood his face with her love.

After her pot had boiled over, and the heat had been turned to simmer, he held her panting body against him. “Cooking is an act of love,” he whispered.