Dinner

A small fantasy writing that isn’t real, doesn’t resemble anyone in particular, but draws on the experiences and fantasies that I have personally had.

This is not the first time we’ve gotten together. He’s fucked me, I’ve fucked him, we’ve fucked each other raw on more than one occassion. It’s nothing particularly new, but tonight feels different.

He had walked into my apartment earlier with a bag of groceries, because we’d agreed on him making dinner. He was sweating a little, and you better believe I noticed how the muscles on his arms stood out when he lifted the heavy plastic onto my kitchen counter. Gods, I love his form. He stands tall, at least a head taller than my already tall frame, and broad in the shoulders. Not a highly trained Adonis, nor a body that has been neglected – a man who was created out of the rocks of the Earth and the strength of Water. His features dance a fine line between muscular and bulky. He reminds me of a bear, or a silverback gorilla. Everything about him screams power, the ability to throw me across the room if he wanted to. He has, in the past. I loved every second of it.

A part of me wants to get up from my seat at the dinner table, where I have been sipping wine and admiring him from a distance. He had been clear, though: he is to take care of me this evening. The voice in the back of my head tells me I should be helping out, that I need to be useful in some way. While music hums away in the background, I tell myself as kindly as I possibly can that it is alright to enjoy this. He has offered, I have accepted, and to get up now would be ruining the moment he has painstakingly created for me. I let out a breath and settle back into my seat.

We haven’t talked since I sat down. There isn’t always a need for small talk, and it’s good knowing we’re both comfortable with it. The sound of a knife cutting through the vegetables and his small hip sways on the beat of the music are enough. I’m not certain what makes me say it, but the words feel good when they leave my lips: “Take off your shirt.”
He pauses, mid-carve. Doesn’t look over his shoulder like I expected him to; my voice had sounded sterner than I remembered deciding on, and I had expected him to refuse or to laugh it off as a joke. Very slowly, he puts the knife down and grabs the hem of his shirt. Pulls it over his head and drops it on the floor, then picks the knife back up to continue his preparations.

My heartbeat quickens. The memories of our last get-together are still evident on his back. Red claw marks that have only sort of healed cover him from the base of his neck to his hips. It still gives me a pang of uncertainty, not sure if he cherishes them as much as I do. The fact that he adhered to my command so readily stirs something in my chest. A creature that I have been trying for years to keep locked in a small corner of my being, because that’s not how women are supposed to act, rears its head and sniffs the air. Boldened by the realisation that he chose to listen, I decide to ditch the uncertainty. He wants this, I think to myself, and you want it too.
“The jeans too. Take everything off.”
This time, he does look over his shoulder. Sees me looking at him over the rim of my glass with a look that speaks louder than a thousand pictures ever could. I don’t miss the small shudder of his breath, and we maintain eye contact while he reaches for the zip of his pants.
“Turn to me. I want to see you.”

He complies, immediately and without speaking. His thumbs disappear in his boxers and push down both his jeans and his underwear in one movement. I can’t help but break eye contact when his boxers snag on his erection. Fuck, this is turning him on too, the creature in my chest purrs. He kicks his clothing to the side and stands upright, watching me, waiting. It’s a sight to behold, this mountain of a man standing bare ass naked in my kitchen, wearing nothing but the two black socks on his feet. I point at them. “I did say everything, did I not.”
The socks fly off too, to be thrown in with the rest of the pile. I feel a bead of sweat drop down my spine.

“Good. Continue.”

He turns and I take another sip of my wine. The Creature in my chest expands, growing larger and larger until it has reached my fingertips and toes. I beg for It to remain still, to wait and see what this little moment has done to him. He resumes his cooking, moving from one corner of the kitchen to the next, banging pots and filling my house with the smells of pasta sauce. I admire the shape of his bottocks while he moves about and feel a thrill every time I catch sight of his cock. Curled up in my chair, I can feel how wet my own panties are, how deeply I desire to fuck dinner off and ravage him. Patience, I tell my Creature. It bangs against the boundaries of my skin in return, whining to be let loose.

Cooking done, he fills two bowls and turns towards me. I can see the small hesitation in his movements, unsure of how to proceed from the environment we have created together. My Creature takes hold of my mouth and speaks the words I would otherwise not be brave enough to speak.

“You can set them down on the table, and you’ll refill my glass. And then I want you to come sit over here,” I point at the space between my legs, “On your knees.”

His chest rises, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat. I’m not sure if it’s because of pride, or rebelliousness, or nerves, but he does what I’ve told him with very precise movements nevertheless. The sight of food makes my mouth water, but the second he kneels down before me all interest in eating is lost. I can feel the heat of his body on the insides of my thighs when he scoots closer and I can feel my pussy clench practically up to my lungs in response. He looks so powerful, so vulnerable, so obedient. I can’t help but cup his face in my hands, feeling the soft prickle of his beard on my palms. I smile at him, feeling the vibrations of his feelings coursing through his skin.

“You’ve done an amazing job,” I tell him. He makes a movement as if to pull away, unaccustomed to receiving compliments and being looked at the way that I look at him now. My hands automatically firm their grip on his face, keeping him in place.
“Look at me,” I demand, “Look at me and hear, really listen to what I’m telling you. You’ve done so well and I am proud of you.”

His whole being relaxes and his head slumps forward, unable to maintain his composure. His hands, hot to the touch, cup my thighs in an effort to stay upright. I let him settle his forehead on my belly, right above my vulva. I know he can smell me, smell the wetness seeping through the fabric of my underwear, know that he knows now how much I’ve been waiting for him to be close. I hike my dress up a little further, so his face rests directly on the lacy panties covering my mound.

“Take them off me,” I command, pushing my hips upwards. A small growl escapes him and he moves, hands groping under my ass to get to the lacy fabric. The panties don’t make it past my knees before his mouth is on me. For a tantalising, back-arching moment, he consumes my soul. Then he pulls back, looks me dead in the eye and says, no, begs: “Let me worship you, please.”

I can’t respond with words, can only nod and grin in exuberant agreement. My Creature explodes out of my chest as I grab his hair with both hands and bring his mouth to my clit once more. I let him feast, let him slobber and cover himself in all of my wetness. He is still on his knees when I release, drenching both the chair and his face in a waterfall of pleasure.

When I’m finally able to come back to Earth, I catch his eyes with mine. We grin at each other, and words are still not needed. He squeezes the butt cheeks he hasn’t let go of yet, and I tug his hair one more time.

“You did so good,” I say again. “Now, let’s eat.”