Making Dinner

When I walk in you ask me to tell you about my day – we start some typical banter, I realize that everything I say is met with “mmmhmmm” and “oh, I see…” in an exaggerated way.   You could not care less what I’m talking about and you are somewhere else as we get things around to start making dinner.

I try to find out what’s up, but you’re having none of it, egging me in to tell you more about my day.  But you stay disjointed, truly uninterested in this comic way.  I finally start to give up and start to move away and you stop.

“I told you to tell me about your day.  You’re leaving.  I don’t think so.”  You walk over, grab my  belt and pull it back through the loops.  Next you unbutton and drop my pants to the floor on the spot and lift one, then the other foot out of them and toss them aside.

I’m trying to figure out what’s going on – but of course the signs are there; I know exactly what you’re doing.  I start to object and you just look at me and frown.

You take one hand and put it on the upper kitchen cabinet and the other and place it there as well, with my hands apart, then kick my legs apart, spread-eagle.  I’m facing the cabinet now, slightly bent over the counter to reach the upper cabinets where you’ve put my hands.

“Don’t move.  I told you to tell me about your day.  You don’t get to decide when you’re done, no matter what.”

You take a step back with the belt, fold it over and swing.  The connection immediately follows the “SWOOSH” of the belt through the air on its way to me.  I jump but somehow keep my hands where you placed them.  My wide stance keeps me largely from turning away and I look back to see if you’re done (hoping that only 1 is needed).

I’m wrong.  I shouldn’t have looked.  I just catch you pulling back your arm to strike again and I instantly feel the sting and sizzle of the connection with the belt.  You continue this for several more hits and then tell me to stand up.

“Do you have anything to say?”  I start with “I’m sorry…” but you cut me off immediately.  “If you’re sorry, then what is THAT all about,” you point to me, hard as a rock.  You know this happens when we do the impact play, and just as predicted, I’m betrayed by my cock, standing out and giving me away.

You turn me to face you and look directly in my eyes.  Without saying a word, you start stroking me – first slowly, then building up as it starts to connect with my brain.  I can’t look away – your eyes, your hand, the building feelings – it’s becoming a roar in my head and you know just the pace to get things going.  Without missing a beat, you stop, keep looking at me, and tell me to keep things ready for you.

You nonchalantly turn to making the next bit of dinner and set the timer.

As soon as the timer is set, you reach over and take me by my cock, walking me to the couch, steering me to lay down.  In one swift movement, you are on top of me, pulling your skirt up just ever so slightly and sinking slowly down on me.  Again with the eyes as you lean over me, riding me.

I can feel you clenching and releasing around me, and just never breaking the look – it all is building and creating this incredible erotic energy between us.  You pull nearly off me, then sink down slowly over and over again, you know this is one of the things that blows my mind.  I can feel my insides responding, moving past the point of no return.

Just as the timer goes off, you do as well.  You roar through your orgasm, and lay on top of me, not moving, effectively shutting down my own orgasm.  Inside, I’m secretly trying to force movement – any movement – to get back to the orgasm that I crave, to sneak one by “on accident.”  You look up at me and slowly shake your head side to side.  “No way,” is all you say as you stand up.

As you walk out to tend to the next item in the kitchen, I start to get up, but you tell me to stay exactly where I was, and to stroke.  I may not stop.  I may not come.  But I must stroke.  I’m so close I’m worried I may lose it and be in for some real trouble, but somehow it stays away.

As the meal prep continues, you again end up setting the timer for the next bits to cook and walk back over and repeat the entire scene – sinking down on me, riding me.  But I’m so sensitive now, so close to coming, I can feel all the internal warning signs, feel all the pressure building up.

Just as you start to come again, I feel you clenching around me, feverishly moving just so you like it.  I have finally passed the point of no return and I can feel myself getting flushed almost willing myself forward, looking to steal the orgasm.

But my orgasms are not my own.  They’re yours.  You can feel me starting to come and you continue to ride me, changing angles, changing the depth.  I can feel every single fold, every single piece of you closing around me.  You catch my gaze as I start to gloss over in my orgasm and simply say “don’t you fucking come.  This is not yours.  It’s mine and you may not come.”

I snicker inside because I know, I just KNOW I’ve passed the point of no return.

And then it subsides.  It turns off.  Your words, in spite of the fact that you’re there, it feels unbelievable and warm and sexy and all the clenching and waves of contractions I feel as you start to come – in spite of all that, that last switch to push the button in me just turns off.

I’m literally growling at you as you come – growling that you again denied me, that you again controlled my physical response in some demonic, odd way.  The control and the crash of my own orgasm cycle washes over me like some massive submissive tidal wave and it runs up and down my spine radiating out inside me.

As you lay down on me to come down from your own orgasm, you nuzzle in and slowly rock on me, using me to calm down for just a few minutes.

When we finally come back to earth, I ask you –

“So, what are you making for dinner that is so intricate that it has all of these steps,” I ask.

You tell me “Salad.  It’s not even out of the fridge yet.”

You just look up at me and grin that evil grin of yours.