Tag Archives: soup

After dinner

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The Man and I exchanged surreptitious glances over our bowls of soup, fizzing with excitement over what may or may not happen later on in the evening.

There were two other friends at the table, who knew nothing of our secret alliance. As far as they and anyone else were concerned, we were just a man and woman who were friends – that at the end of the night everyone at the table would head off in different directions to their own beds.

The clandestine nature of our lustful fun made it all the more exhilarating. I felt myself blush at my naughty thoughts as we talked about all kinds of trivial things as we tucked into the main course – steak and veg, rather than the other main course I would devour later.

The Man was cooking for three of us and it was satisfying to see him whisking plates and cutlery away and breezing back with different courses. I liked to see him a little flustered – it gave me a tiny peak at his usually hidden vulnerability. He was usually strong, calm and in control and seeing this side of him (which rarely appeared) always made me feel like perhaps he was not as self-sufficient as he liked everyone to think. It also made me want to jump up from the table, maybe upset a few plates, push him up against the wall and kiss him. But that would pretty much blow our cover.

So instead, with our friends, I carried on our conversation about how best to cook steak and took sips from my wine.

We sailed through dessert and started on some cheese and biscuits. I could feel myself tingling in the groin, not because of the brie, but at the anticipation of what may come soon. Our friends were muttering about it getting late and looking at their watches. I remained calm – after all, I lived near The Man, so it wasn’t necessary for me to worry about setting off home just yet.

Eventually, our friends left and we sat back down at the table to finish our wine.

Then, he turned to me, this time looking full on into my eyes, now he was free to be bold again.

“So, little girl, would you like to come upstairs with me?” He asked, smirking, knowing full well that I had been waiting all evening for this moment. He was back in control again and was totally aware he could reduce me to mush. All I could do was let him lead me by the hand up to this room.

In the soft-focused red wine haze we kissed and were naked within seconds as he tasted my damp and over-excited pussy. I writhed with pleasure and pulled him on top of me – I wanted to feel him inside me now, after all this time. My patience had run out hours ago.

He entered me hard and deep and I gasped at the force, but thrust my hips to make him do it again, and again, and again… He flipped me over and slapped my bottom playfully. The heat of the slap only made me hunger for more of his dick. We bonked hard and the bed creaked. But the long evening had zapped our energy, so we soon crashed on to the bed in a heap, exhausted but satisfied.

But, dear readers, he is a damn good cook, so if food was all that was on the table, some of my needs would have been satisfied, while others would have been growling and rumbling…

If you can stand the heat, stay in the kitchen

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The kitchen is steamy and the windows are opaque with condensation. Two pans bubble on the hob – one with a winter stew, the other with vegetable soup. Even though it’s cold and damp outside the room is warm with activity and my excited heart-thumping anticipation.

I shuffle around the table straightening cutlery as I play for time, waiting for the knock at the door. I know he’ll be late as usual. Looking discreetly out of the window won’t make him arrive any sooner, but I still do it – ready to duck if he sees me, looking desperate.

Eventually, the knock, thankfully when I am back in the kitchen. He mumbles that something smells good, but not whether it’s me or the food, and steps into the steamy room, peering into the pans.

He moves closer and, before I have time to think, kisses me long and hard, his tongue softly dipping into my mouth and his hands moving down my back, over my buttocks, lingering slightly over my groin, before moving up to my breasts. He now has one hand over each, moving them round in circular motions, before he lifts my top up and simultaneously yanks my bra below each one – The Man never feels the need to undo bras.

He is about to stoop to direct his mouth over a nipple when he stops, moves away quickly and begins opening cupboards. “What are you doing?” I ask, somewhat bewildered and disappointed.

“Just wait there – don’t move.” He says, still looking in every cupboard, as I feel a little awkward, boobs out, top hitched up, glancing over at my pans. “That will do!” He exclaims, pulling out a jar of chocolate spread.

Unscrewing the lid, he dips his finger in and smears a little on my left breast, then more boldly plunges in four fingers and slaps on a large splodge. It feels cold and gloopy, and my nipples tingle and firm up at the change in temperature. He eases me back so that I am sitting on the table and leans in to lick, nibble and devour the gooey mess as I wrap my legs around him and stroke his head, enjoying the excited tingles I am starting to feel inside my jeans.

As he slows down I lower my hands to his trousers, tugging at his belt and zip, urgently retrieving his solid penis. The chocolate spread is nearby and there is only one thing for it – on it goes, creating my very own tasty lollipop. I slide off the table and on to my knees. He steadies himself against the table as I gently devour his chocolate coating and he moans with pleasure. I lick it from top to bottom and bottom to top until it is all clean again and we are both bubbling in the same way as the two pans.

He pulls me to my feet, kisses me hungrily and pushes everything off the table – knives, forks, spoons, mats – luckily I hadn’t got round to getting the glasses out. Everything crashes to the floor and he hitches me up on to the table, laying me back and whipping off my jeans and knickers in one fluid move. Within seconds his mouth and tongue are in contact with my clitoris and his fingers are on the edge of my vagina. His tongue works its magic, gently lapping and sending writhing waves through my body, turning me into a shaking mess.

The table feels cold against my back but also stronger and safer than I imagined. I can’t wait any longer I have to have him inside me, so I pull him up and closer and he stands to enter me as I lie spread-eagled. He fucks me hard and rhythmically and I moan with exhilaration. By now both pans are boiling over, liquid spilling over tops. I am beyond caring but my body is echoing them, as The Man sends me past boiling point. If I was a kettle, something in me would be whistling by now.

He pulls me off the table, so I am standing in front of him, and turns me round so he can enter me from behind. I clasp one of his thighs as he pumps me until he reaches a climax, then reach back to hold him close to share his closing moments and feel the warmth of his body against mine.

Soup and stew totally ruined, me totally ruined – but what a beautiful way to go! I take a few moments get my bearings – as he always leaves me light-headed and dazed – before opening a bag of nuts and pouring two glasses of wine.

Not in front of the children

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When my daughter was about three she walked in on the ex and I ‘in the act’. It was a Sunday morning and as usual she had woken up and wandered into our room to try to burrow under our duvet.

The ex developed a rather strange high pitched voice and said: “Can you get back in your bed now, sweetie? Me and mummy are having special cuddles.” She quietly left the room without protest, as though she instinctively knew she shouldn’t be there.

This was the first and last time this ever happened – which may have been more to do with the infrequency of our intimacies than us being lucky.

But being a Drunken Slut Mum these days means sex at times has to be an opportunist activity, just as some burglars rely on doors being left unlocked and keys left carelessly lying around. If there’s a chance of a quick nibble on my favourite snack (which comes in big Man-sized portions) I will grab it with both hands and my mouth wide-open, so to speak.

And no, I certainly don’t agree with anyone having sex in front of children, but if they are asleep upstairs, surely it’s worth a try.

My creaky bed springs do me no favours, so we tend to explore downstairs options. The Man and I have ended up rolling around on my lounge carpet, crashing into squeaky toys or setting off some brightly coloured plastic object which lights up and plays a tune, especially when it comes into contact with a right buttock. We’ve knocked parts of the play pen over, had to extract pieces of Lego from our behinds and given the stuffed toy penguin in the room more than enough to stare at.

Another recent discovery – something I have always fantasised about being ‘taken’ on – has been the kitchen table. I feared it would be either too cold and hard or not withstand my weight, but was proven wrong on both accounts. I had often talked about being done on the table, but hadn’t expected it to happen. But the mere suggestion of something to The Man makes it something that will happen.

Next time, though, I want the kettle to be boiling, pans of soup and stew to be bubbling over the top and the room to be so hot and steamy that it’s impossible to tell whether it’s been caused by our sexual passion or the over-cooked food. I also want to give the worktops a try, if they aren’t littered with vegetable peelings…