“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked as we entered the kitchen.
“Oh, yes,” I assured him, noting that the mixing bowl was already set on the counter along with all the ingredients, prepared and measured out. “I think I’ve been waiting my whole life for this moment.”
I didn’t understand why, but eating John’s sugar cookies was always a near orgasmic experience for me. Perhaps it was the way the delicately baked dough, firm, yet tender, caressed my lips. Or maybe it was how the thick sweetness embraced my tongue as the bite of cookie melted in my mouth. And I could never get over the tremendous pleasure I received every time I swallowed the sugary concoction…
My pussy moistened from the memory alone.
“Jane, are you still with me?”
I shook off the revelry and turned to him. “Yes, I’m sorry,” I offered, a blush warming my cheeks. “I really appreciate you taking the time to show me how to make your famous sugar cookies.”
My heart skipped a beat as he strolled over to the counter and leaned against it. “Well, the recipe is very special, and you must do exactly what I tell you, or the cookies will not come out right.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
He was so fucking sexy. If only he would give me more than a recipe…
“Well, for starters, I’m happy you dressed as I directed,” he said.
I glanced down at my attire. Heels, skirt, strapless blouse, and no undergarments. I didn’t understand the last request, but who was I to question a world-renowned chef.
“However,” he continued, “I need you to lift your skirt so that I might see that you’ve complied with all my preparation instructions.”
Holy shit!
Cookies. Think about the cookies.
My tentative hands reached for the hem. Gathering the fabric, I raised it higher and higher until I could feel the cool air caressing my hairless mound.
He moved toward me, slow, causal, until he was so close, I could feel the heat radiating off his body. His hand fondled my softness.
“Perfect,” he murmured. “Smooth as silk, and very… hygienic. Hygiene is very important when working around food. Yes?”
I sighed my concurrence as he withdrew, his fingers brushing against my swollen clit.
He signaled me to follow him to the sink. “Let’s wash up then.”
When I turned the water on, he palmed the soap dispenser, then glided his hands over mine, lathering me up in an explosion of white shimmering bubbles that had him slipping and sliding, rubbing away all the unseen germs. After rinsing under the steaming stream, he used his elbow to turn off the faucet, then produced two clean paper towels and patted me dry.
If he only knew about the other place on my body that was sopping wet!
He guided me over to the counter. “Now, dump the ingredients into the bowl.”
I tried to memorize all the measurements as I did so, but found it difficult to concentrate when his lips started roaming over my neck and shoulders.
“I would hate to see such a beautiful blouse ruined,” he whispered in my ear. He tugged my top down, freeing my breasts to his heated appraisal. Instantly, my nipples hardened and my core tightened, tingling in expectation.
“Mixer,” I choked.
“No, my dear. You must knead the dough with your hands…” His arms wrapped around my body and cupped my breasts, massaging them in a steady rhythm. “Like this.”
Under his expert tutelage, I went about my task, using my fingers to combine all the ingredients into a malleable ball while his mouth seared paths across my skin. Moaning, I leaned backed into him, thrusting my chest out, so that I might offer more of myself to his capable hands.
“Good girl,” he declared, plucking my sensitive buds. He pulled away and picked up the bowl and container of flour. “Now you must roll the dough.”
It took all my willpower not to drop to my knees and beg him to fuck me right then and there. But this was about the cookies, not sexual gratification.
On shaky legs, he led me to the kitchen’s island. He poured the fine white powder over the wood-top surface, then deposited the cookie mixture and dusted it with another coating of flour. He retrieved a roller from the drawer, presenting it to me. This being the easy part, I took the heavy utensil and began rolling the lump of dough into a flat sheet.
Positioned behind me, his body pressed against mine as he looked over my shoulder. “Harder,” he said. “It’s still too thick.”
My breasts bounced furiously with my increased efforts.
“No, no, Jane.” His hand slid up my skirt and began stroking my slick folds. “You will tire your arms out that way. Put some ass into it.”
Moving back a step, I leaned in more, my body rocking against his as I went about working the dough. I gasped when his fingers delved into my tight, dripping hole.
Each penetrating roll fueled the rapidly building fire within. “Please, John,” I begged. “I can’t… I must…”
“Don’t,” he growled.
My body trembled beneath the onslaught of his guidance, but he didn’t stop. He kept finger-fucking me until I was panting his name, drowning in the waves of pleasure that washed over me.
“Damn it, Jane. Let me show you how.”
Suddenly he bent me over the island, his large hard cock plunging deep inside me as his hands covered mine, moving the pin forcefully over the dough. His thrusts were quick, powerful, relentless. I cried out as he rode me hard, pounding me from behind with a frustrated roughness that sent my senses reeling. It was too much—too good. I screamed, my body exploding in an earth-shattering orgasm that stole my breath, blurred my vision, and milked him dry.
When my sight finally cleared, I looked down to see that the dough was the thin and smooth… simply perfect.
“God, John. I love making cookies with you.”
Story written by Tia Fanning
“Fanning the Flames of Romance”
www.tiafanning.com
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