BDSM · Love and Relationships · Sex

In the Kitchen

In a couple of weeks, we will have been living in our house for a whole year. We have fucked in the kitchen all of twice.

The first time was in the first week after I went back to work after our son was born. We had already “had intercourse”, as my adorable OB put it. About two weeks before the recommended wait time. But I was in my 6th week post-birth and Master was just fed up with my having been at the office the whole day.

We went out for a smoke, came back in, and his hands were up my shirt. Then down my pants. On the back of my neck. In my hair. Suddenly I was braced face-first up against the door to the laundry room on the other side of the kitchen. He didn’t take his time. It was the first time we hadn’t used a condom since the baby was born and it felt amazing. I climaxed almost immediately. He used me from behind for what seemed like a gloriously long time. Then, gasping and thoroughly sated from our sexual frustration, we went about our evening like normal, non-impulsive adults. Most definitely not the type to fuck up against a door in the kitchen. And we exchanged sideways glances and smirks the rest of the night.

Yesterday, we were a bit hungry. A small breakfast and we were having a large dinner, so no lunch. I decided I couldn’t take it much longer and I’d just make dinner freakishly early. Lazy-as-fuck Spaghetti and Meatballs.

I have just finished searing the ground beef/pork mixture and putting it into the sauce with the meatballs. We went and had a smoke. When we came back in, I immediately stirred the sauce, not wanting it to burn. Master was watching intently.

“I love watching you cook.”

“It’s just spaghetti. Not overly impressive.”

“I just watch you. All the time.”

“I’m not that fascinating.”

Then his lips were on mine, muffling any additional snippy remarks and preventing me from what he was hoping was going to be an extremely sexy moment. I did everything I could to not fuck it up, including pretending to be trying to fuck it up.

We continued kissing, my hands rubbing him over his pants, his hands up my shirt. I moved my hand into his pants and he followed suit. The moment his fingers reached me, he groaned.

“Do you feel how wet you already are, baby girl?”

“Yes. And if you make it quick, I might be able to keep the sauce from burning.”

“Oh yes. We wouldn’t want that.”

Suddenly I was spun around, bent over the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen from the stove. My pants were around my ankles before I could exhale and he was inside me. The very last thing on my mind was the sauce on the stove. I was fully able to concentrate on his fingers digging into my hips, his growled words about how tight and wet I was, all the way through two unbelievable orgasms.

Panting and satisfied (because fuck I’d been wanting to fuck all afternoon), I pulled my pants back up, washed my hands, and stirred the sauce.

It didn’t burn. I had set the heat at an appropriate temperature and the sauce was just starting to bubble. Dinner was pretty fantastic. (I buy the absolute BEST pre-made tomato basil sauce.)

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