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Tell Me A Story, Desdmona
illustration by garv

A Cool November Morning

By Desdmona

This story contains sexually explicit scenes.

Rick likes to make omelets, and I like to watch him. He has a ritual: gathering the ingredients from the refrigerator, settling them in the burner of the stovetop that he wonít be using, frying up the meatóbacon or sausage or hamósetting it aside and finally cutting up the vegetables. He grips the knife around its bolster óthe knifeís balance pointówith his last three fingers resting on the handle. His thumb and index finger are on opposite sides of the blade, like the knife is an extension of his hand, and he pierces the flesh of each vegetable with the knifeís edge before bringing down the entire blade, working it through the vegetable, hitting the cutting board with a decisive thunk, and then turning the slices in tandem and cutting again until all the vegetables are in chunksóneat little piles of red pepper, green pepper, mushrooms, and onions. Sometimes he glances over at me and winks before stealing a bite from one of the piles.

Iíll hop up on the counter, the polished granite cool on my ass, my feet dangling, and Iíll absorb every little thing he does. Rick wonít know that Iím not wearing anything under the blanket I pulled around me before coming to the kitchen. Heíll think Iím watching him because Iím hungry. And I am, but itís not an omelet that Iím hungry foróitís Rick.

Rick wears his pajama pants and nothing else while he cooks. I know thereís nothing underneath the pants because itís morning, and Rick sleeps in the nude, and because the waist always slips down on his hip, exposing the concaved dip between Rickís leg and his groin. A stirring between my legs, faint at first, will strengthen the more I ogle Rick because he is beautiful and utterly fuckable. Iíll be torn between wanting to stare and wanting to touch. If only his pajamas would slip down a little further.

Rick knows I enjoy watching, so the morning ritual has become a point of seduction between us. As he whisks the eggs, heíll flex the muscles of his forearm. Heíll talk to me about baseball or the stock market, but heíll speak slowly and use his husky, morning voice, the one that makes me press my thighs together and shiver. Heíll look over at me just before putting the egg mixture into the frying pan and say something funny. He wonít laugh aloud, because he never does, but he will smile. A jolt of a smile that touches me to my core. Iíll inch forward from my seat atop the counter and open my legs, just enough to summon Rick toward me. Heíll hesitate before setting the bowl down and turning the flame off, because he likes making me wait, likes to see how long I can go before Iíll squirm. Heíll lean against the counter, one foot crossed over the other, causing the gap between his pajamas and his skin to widen. And just as the stirring between my thighs turns into a cruel, slow burn, Rick will slowly walk toward me.

Heíll reach with both hands and cradle my face, the pungent smell of onion and bell pepper clinging to his fingers. Heíll press his thumbs against my lips and into my mouth, giving me a taste. Iíll gaze into his eyes while I suck, first the tip of one thumb, and then the other. His eyes will get dreamy and the blue of them will shine. Heíll lean in close and nip at my lips, guppy-like, then move upward along the lines of my nose, across my eyelids, and back to my lips. Breathing and nipping. Breathing and nipping. And then heíll no longer be gentle. He will kiss me hard, until my lips feel bruised and swollen. Heíll rub his day-old beard against my face, scraping and burning my flesh until I moan. His hands have barely touched me, not the way I need them to.

Iíll open my legs further and wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, gnawing on his neck, kissing the hollow of his throat, inhaling the leftover smell of sleep. My hands will slide down over the sinewy muscles of his arms, fingering the definitions heíd flexed moments ago with the whisk, and the blanket will fall off my shoulders, leaving me nude.

Iíll grab at his chest, running my hands through the fine hair and squeezing his pectorals before pinching his nipples. Rick will grunt because he likes me to play with his nipples. So Iíll pinch a little harder and then flatten my palms against the pebbled buds. My eyes will close, and Iíll imagine I can feel his blood rushing, his lungs expelling, his heart beating.

Rick will wink again when he notices my blanket has dropped and Iím completely nude, and then he will claw his way up my thighs, forcing my legs apart until they ache, an ache that makes me wet. Another smell will be added to the airóthe smell of pussyóand Rick will inhale like itís his last breath. But he wonít touch me there, not yet, except to brush his knuckles against my pubic hair. Heíll say, ďWhat a pretty pussy you have.Ē And Iíll know itís true because heís so sincere.

My hands will slide down his torso to the waist of his pajamas, and Iíll fumble with the tie, pretending Iím having trouble. Rick will grunt again, grab my hands, and push them aside. Heíll yank at the tie and the pajama pants will suddenly drop over his hips and puddle at his ankles. Heíll quickly step out of them, but I wonít be watching his feet, Iíll be looking at his penis. It will already be hard and thick, and the tip will be glossy with moisture.

Rick will pull me to the edge of the counter, its hard surface digging into my ass. The head of his cock will nudge my belly, and I will wrap my hand around the velvet heat of his shaft. The thick tendon along the underside will stretch and tighten. And his beating pulse will thrum in my hand. There will be no more seduction.

In one elegant movement, Rick will cover my hand with his and position his cock at the entrance of my cunt. Together we will guide him, millimeter by millimeter. Weíll watch his cock disappear inside me until the anticipation is too great, and Rick will thrust forwardóhard. I will want to scream, but my voice will be trapped in my throat. Iíll hook my ankles around his waist and throw my head back, wishing Rick could climb inside my body completely. I will scratch and dig at his muscled back, leaving streaks of red and crescent imprints of my fingernails.

Rick will bury his face into my neck, straining and salivating as he thrusts. Heíll say, ďBaby baby babyĒ against my skin and the vibration of his voice will act as a conduit from my neck to my cunt. I will tighten myself around his cock, and Rick will press deeper. Our breathing, harsh and heavy, will echo in the silence of the kitchen, followed by the slapping of wet flesh. Rick will reach orgasm just seconds before I do, and his semen will spill into me as his body shudders. I will feel closer to him then than any person ever in my life, and when my orgasm echoes his, I will cry.

Rick will ask, ďAre you crying?Ē And Iíll tell him itís the onions, but heíll know it isnít. Heíll know my tears are because I love him and the way that he loves me. And when I shiver, heíll pull the blanket back up around my shoulders and turn to finish our omelet.

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