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.