Kneading

When I wrote this story, I expected feedback on the relationship between the two characters. Instead, what I mostly got was feedback on how unusual it was to have a detailed description of what penetration feels like from the male point of view. I also got one complaint about poor food hygiene 🙂

For those of you who don’t speak British English, the American word for pot-holer is spelunker. Oddly, the American English word has the older root (Middle-English for Cavern) while the British English word really only applies to Limestone formations with rivers running through them. Who says erotica isn’t educational?

I wake in darkness, cock hard, mouth dry, wondering what is wrong. Your side of the bed is cold and empty. The insomnia demon has you in her grip again. I will probably find you hunched over your computer fucking strangers in chatrooms. Maybe I should pretend to be a stranger. Maybe then you would deal with the uncomfortable erection I have woken up with.

The air is cold on my nakedness after the duvet trapped warmth of the bed, but my penis still points the way like a weather vane. Cockadoodlescrew.

No sound of keys tapping. No tell-tale light under the office door. No stifled moans as your fingers play tunes on your cunt. Then I hear the thumping noise. Something heavy and soft slapping against a hard surface. This is what has woken me.

You are in the kitchen. Only the over counter lights are on. Dressed in a robe, T-Shirt and woolly socks you are making bread. At 3:00am. This is so like you it makes me smile.

Absorbed in your task, you haven’t yet noticed that I’m here. You are lost in the texture of the dough your fingers are kneading on the marble slab. You are using all your strength to massage the damp, slightly sticky, breadflesh in front of you. As you turn it over and slap it on the slab, you make a little grunting noise and I know that, if I could see your face, the tip of your tongue would be visible at the corner of your mouth. Your hands will be warm. You’ve told me many times that cold hands make poor bread. You are sweating slightly as you work. A flour covered hand reaches to push your hair back from your face. The fluid sensuality of the movement makes my arse clench. I want you. Here. In the kitchen. I want my cock in your cunt.

In two strides I am behind you, my left hand over your mouth, my right arm all the way around your waist, my cock pushing into the small of your back. You stiffen and try to speak.

“Shhhhh. Knead your bread and let me need you”.

I kiss the side of your neck and you lean back into me. That always makes me feel large and strong. Being behind you turns me on. The strength of your small back on my chest and belly, the tempting pliancy of your arse, the smell of your hair in my face, makes me want to hold you by the shoulders and rip you apart. I want four hands and at least two cocks to pay you the attention you deserve. You tilt your head forward and I kiss the back of your neck. This is a ballet we have danced before.

Your fingers return to coaxing the dough. The movement of your muscles against my chest tortures me. I put one foot between your legs and push your ankles further apart, so you lean forward from the waist to keep your balance, your fingers sinking into the dough.

My left hand moves down to your breast, feeling it through the cotton of your Tshirt. So round, like half a grapefruit. At the beginning of the twentieth century in Paris, it was held that the perfect breast would fill a champagne glass. I am picturing the glass against your breast even as my finger and thumb tease your nipple.

Your fingers are still. All your weight is against the kitchen counter. You push your arse back against me.

“Fuck me, you bastard” you say without looking around.

I pull your robe to the right, exposing your cunt and arse. Your lips are wet. You smell like a warm salt sea. My cock seems to sniff at you like a dog and then it dives into your folds of flesh.

Every time I am surprised at how it feels. First the tight hot grasp of muscle around my cock; then pushing through into space; then banging up against the ridged ceiling of this cave. My cock is a pot-holer squirming and sliding blindly through these fluid slick formations. That moment of moving from constriction to freedom always makes me gasp. If my eyes are closed I can almost see my cockhead waving in the dark contours of your cunt.

You groan as my hips slap against your arse. Later we will see the bruises you get from banging up against the counter. You look so fragile but I know that, no matter how hard I thrust, you always want more. My hands are on your hips now. Your back is arched. You are a she-wolf howling at the moon.

Your cunt squeezes my cock and I know that you want me to rotate my hips. I move in a slow figure of 8, keeping my cock fully inside you; imagining a torch probing the depths of your cave. I bend my knees slightly so I can push upwards from underneath. I slip out just far enough that all of my cock is grasped tightly then I push through again into space.

You are making small noises now. You eyes will be closed. Your mind is leaving me while your body pulls me tighter. Soon I will be lost to the now of the dance; playing notes not reading them. But I need more purchase. My right hand moves past your hips to push against your mound. My left hand pushes on your tailbone. I adjust you to an angle where you are up on the balls of your feet, allowing me to fuck hard and straight.

You know what is coming and I think I hear you breath “yes”, but the reptile hindbrain is taking over. Words are just noises. Warm cunts are for fucking and fucking and fucking and fucking.

Everything now is push and grind and sweat. I know I’m shouting but I’m not sure what. Then the cum starts, somewhere in my belly. A pneumatic pressure that distends time. My consciousness follows the rush of sperm from my balls through the narrow channel of my cock until it breaks like surf inside you. Then again. And again. Then I am spent. There is a moment of almost non-being. The reptile crawls back to its nest at the base of my skull. I am myself again.

I relax the fingers that are now somehow buried in your arse flesh (another place where we will later find bruises). My chest hairs are matted with sweat. My cock slides ungracefully from your cunt. I notice that you have been resting the side of your face in the dough. You have one hand between your legs. Did you come? You hate me to ask. Like leaving the toilet seat up, it’s something you have trained me not to do. But I wonder.

I step back. That image of you, fucked and bentover, makes me almost guilty. My cock is asleep. Now I have room to wonder how I can treat you this way. Until next time.

You straighten and turn to face me for the first time. You eyes are on mine but your hand is on my soft sticky cock.

“Poor thing,” you say, “You’ll get cold. Go back to bed. I have bread to make. I’ll be up soon”. You pat my balls as if sending me off to school. Will I ever know what you are thinking?

“I love you,” I say.

You let go of my balls and place the flat of your hand on my chest. “I know” you say, then, without washing your hands, you return to kneading the dough.

Leaving the light of the kitchen behind I return to the now cold bed, intending to feel hurt and puzzled, but the pillow and the duvet are your allies and whisper to me that all is well. As I drift into sleep I think I hear you singing as you knead the bread.


© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

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