The Cooking Lesson – By Wicked Wench
Erotic painting by Samarel
I arrive at your home, determined to entice you into learning how to cook. It is not difficult; it merely requires the thought and attention that you foster for your passionate writing. It is my goal to channel that passion elsewhere. “I burn air,” you have told me, time and again, but this time we will prevail. I have shopping bags full of items: pasta, tomato sauce, oregano, fresh garlic, steamy bread, and semi-sweet chocolate for brownies (for I can never resist dessert).
You open the door, dressed in your customary black, with that predatory glint in your eye that speaks of mind blowing sensual escapades. Your smell envelops me, and almost deters me from my task, as images of disrobing you flutter through my brain. The smile on your face tells me that my thoughts are transparent, that you understand each and every wayward, sexually stimulated thought within my brain. You lean forward to kiss me and I eagerly accept, our lips clinging with each touch, tongues sliding tantalizingly across each other’s lips. I walk into your embrace, which quickly turns heated. Your arm is an iron band behind my back, crushing me to your chest, while your hand caresses my face, slides under my hair, and imprisons me within your adoration.
I break the kiss, breathing heavily, and walk with determination to the kitchen. You follow, laughing softly. I set the bags on the counter, and lean over to rummage through your cupboard for pots. “You will cook,” I emphasize, “Come over here.” You walk over, and say, “I am at your service.” Keep those comments up, and we will not be cooking, I think. Again, your grin tells me that you know my thoughts.
We begin with the sauce, and I try to direct your actions. Whether or not you are sabotaging my attempts (and I believe that you are), the session is not going well. I attempt to stand behind you to guide your actions, but you are too tall. “Step in front of me,” you say softly, and I comply. Immediately, I feel your arms surround me and the wall of your chest connects strongly with my back. I catch my breath at the contact, and your hands slide lovingly down my arms and over my fingers, “helping” me crush the garlic through the press. Your breath is warm and comforting in my ear, and I melt into the warmth and strength of your chest. While I am stirring, your hand moves to my waist, your tongue to my ear. Damn you, you know my weakness. The wetness of your tongue laves my ear, and passion streaks throughout my body, weakening my knees. One hand is caressing my waist softly, and the other climbs my side, brushing tenderly, lovingly over my breast, and then circling the nipple. Like a soldier at attention, it rises, and your fingers grasp it, manipulate it, and pull-softly at first, then with more hunger.
I arch hungrily within your embrace, and turn my head for a soul-searing kiss. You are ravenous, but no more so than I. I turn in your arms and press myself against you, feeling your arousal pressing in to my stomach, and my hips move softly against you. My arms caress your biceps, run down your forearms, and then slide around to caress your back, waist, and finally, your ass. I feel your breath quicken and hear you groan as I knead you, and your hands travel over my body like a starving man grabs for food. All thought of teaching you to cook has been consumed in desire’s flame. Fortunately, as our mouths meld, you reach behind me to turn off the flame. When that is done, you grasp me by the waist and lift me to the counter. Your eager hands grasp the edges of my button down shirt and you tear it; the buttons fly across the kitchen, raining down on the floor, as your mouth meets my breasts. The lace of my bra proves an enticing invitation for your adoration, and your mouth closes over my nipple and bra. Your teeth pinch me and I moan softly. I have awaited the feel of your mouth on my body all day and will no longer be denied.
Your mouth ravages my breast, leaving love marks, your beard rasping against the tender skin and marking it as yours. Meanwhile, your hands caress my legs, grip my calves, and follow the curve of my thigh. The adventure continues, as your hand slides beneath my denim skirt and meets the barrier of my lace panties. “These are lovely,” you rasp, “But they’ll never do.” The sound of rending fabric meets my ears and wisps of lace flutter to the floor. My head falls against the door of the cupboard as your mouth leaves my breast and travels down my body, on a mission to intercept the invasion of your hands. Your tongue caresses my navel, swirls around it, and continues its downward progression while your hands march ever upward. As you nip the skin at my waist, you whisper naughty words, words that describe, in detail, every act that you wish to visit upon my body. This drives me wild and I beg for you to kiss me. “Kiss me anywhere,” I plead, and you comply.
Your lips meet your fingers at the juncture of my thighs and the play commences. You kneel before me and begin to feast, telling me that this is what you have been waiting for, dreaming of, all day. Your tongue teases gently as your finger invades me. Slowly a second one, then a third, joins it and your tongue flicks over my clit with mind-numbing slowness. I reach down, one hand grasping your hair, the other caressing my nipples, pulling roughly as your tongue laves, strolls, and caresses. My thighs close around your neck and shoulders, and the heels of my shoes dig slightly into your back. My body tightens and the pinnacle of passion is within my grasp. I moan and come, feeling your tongue penetrating me, joining your fingers in their ecstatic victory dance.
Abruptly, you stand, wrestle with the waistband of your slacks, and free yourself. Before I can recover, you thrust into me, your cock filling me, stretching me, impaling me. You pull my hips toward you and I am in your arms, on your staff, as you thrust in and out of me frantically. Your tongue caresses my lips and your teeth sink into my lower lip as the power of your thrusts increases. The lace of my bra scrapes enticingly across your chest and I reach down, slide your shirt off, and feel the contact of skin upon skin.
Panting with desire, you reach up, pull my hair, and force my head back, forcing me to offer my neck as a feast at a supplicant banquet. Your teeth sink into the juncture of my neck and shoulder, and I am breathless. I arch against you in complete abandon, oblivious to our surroundings, searching for completion, for the feeling of oneness that only you are able to deliver. You glance down to find your cock glistening, sliding in and out of my body. Your thrusts increase, sliding in and out of me with increasing speed, and you whisper in my ear. “You are the only thing I want in my kitchen,” you purr, as I crest the peak again. This time, you join me, and we slump against each other, satiated for the moment, breathing heavily and smiling into each other’s eyes.
I look over at the remnant of our sauce, dismayed at my inability to teach you to cook. You merely smile, bite the lobe of my ear, and say, “Let’s move on to dessert. Didn’t I see chocolate and whipped cream in that bag?”