We have come back early from the party. We just couldn’t wait any longer for the next stage of the evening.

As I fumble about in the kitchen with coffee cups, you go upstairs to the loo. I expect you to come back down for a drink.

What I don’t expect is a naked man in my kitchen with a cheeky grin on his face and not even a blink or shrug of embarrassment. The surprise makes me tremble and tingle below with excitement. What shall we do now?

I glide my fingers over your chest hair and tiptoe to kiss you, softly first, then our teeth and tongues clash wildly, echoing the want in our bodies.

You press against me, so I feel your hard, naked penis prodding me, pushing through my dress and knickers. You guide me backwards against the worktop and kitchen sink which form a right angle corner. My back is pressed into this alcove; your body grinds against me. As we continue to kiss, my hands glide down your back to your bottom while yours are bolder and travel up my dress, onto my knickers, into my knickers. Perhaps I am a little over-dressed.

I thrust forwards, willing you to touch me inside, to tug my pants down. I want you to do it, to show me you want me as much as I want you. I don’t have to wait. You ease them down my thighs and they drop to the floor.

Stepping out of them, I raise my left leg onto the worktop, stretching across the cooker hob, carefully kicking a couple of glasses and mugs back as I go. I want you to move closer to feel you against my already hot, wet vagina.

You eye me hungrily, as you lick your middle finger and slowly move it to the place I want it, as I grab your dick, easing my hand slowly up and down.

But I am impatient. I want you inside me, filling me now and there is no time to move from this spot. So, carefully I raise my other leg, so I am straddling the corner, one leg across the hob and the other now outstretched across the edge of the sink and draining board. Secretly, I am impressed that I can stretch so far, when I am not really that flexible. Now I’m the perfect height and position for you to get inside me with ease.

You briefly glance at my open legs, also admiring my agility, before kissing me softly and easing yourself inside. It feels wonderful and I gasp in relief, excitement and pleasure. You thrust into me hard and deep, again and again as I lean back, trying to avoid pots and pans, raising my pelvis to match your every move. We fit so well together, you and me, and I lose all sense of time and place. At times I forget we are in a kitchen.

While inside me, you twiddle and stroke my clitoris and I shudder and writhe to your fingering, feeling myself ready to burst. Faster, faster we bang against the worktop. I moan and whimper, you swear and purr, then as it feels like I can’t take any more, we both find our pinnacle, firing our own rockets, grabbing each other, embracing in sweat and sated exhaustion.

You take my hand to help me down, then we sit on a wooden chair, me on your lap, my arms around your neck, my face buried in your shoulder, your fingers gently stroking my back. I feel safe, warm, wanted and completely smitten.

Artistic licence

When I casually suggested The Man took up life drawing classes, naïve though it sounds, I had no idea that I was going to be his model.

After all, at the time we had not had sex or been alone together for months. I had an eight-month-old baby so had been pretty tied up with that and felt my body was far from ship-shape (although I did feel rather ship-sized).

I had seriously seen a list of courses at a local community centre and life drawing was one of them and as well as his more obvious talents, I knew The Man was skilled in other arts. So, (sadly) having reached the point where I assumed I was no longer a pot where he wanted to dip his brush there wasn’t even a hint of duplicity in my suggestion.

I only suspected my fortunes were changing when he seemed extra interested in ‘doing life drawing’ with me. Even then I wasn’t sure whether someone else was modelling for us and gingerly went to his house armed with charcoal and paper…

The Man threw his clothes off and lay on an old mattress with the plan that we took turns in doing ten-minute sketches of one another. Still reluctant to unveil my post-pregnant body, I insisted he went first and hoped the ten minutes would somehow overrun and the stopwatch would fail to go off.

No such luck. He coaxed me to strip and I slowly peeled off my clothes, feeling like the closer I got to nakedness the more repulsed he would be. Nervous, rambling, stuttering and trying to make jokes about my appearance, I let him move me to the mattress where he wanted me to stand, leaning slightly to one side, with my hand out against the wall. I watched his eyes looking me up and down, taking in every line and curve, without a flicker of repulsion or desire.

We did a couple more sketches, our fingers blackened by charcoal, not showing one another our pictures until the end. But when I saw his, I was amazed, not just at his skilful work, but at the curvaceous, round-bosomed Botticelli-style goddess who graced the page. The Man isn’t excessive with flattery or compliments, so I knew this was how he must have seen me, even if I couldn’t get beyond the cellulite, saggy belly and slightly misshapen breasts.

And as we sat on the mattress, still naked, making our way through a bottle of red, he leaned in to kiss me for the first time in months. We slowly fell backwards as he turned his focus to my breasts and his hands moved downwards. As our movements became more frantic, and our kisses more urgent, his penis made its way inside me and felt as good as it had the many months before, back where it belonged, back home again. He came quicker than usual and we held each other, inhaling the natural smell and warmth of our bodies.