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His Hunger

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When he cooked, the entire kitchen was galvanized by the strength he put into it; the dishes, pans, knives, everything bore the brunt of his strength, and everything was challenged, forced to cook, to boil. He was a beast of a man, unrefined. His fingers thick and dented from the way he conquered the vegetables with his sharp knife. His arm marked by red streaks from boiling water that raised up like hot lava as he tossed concoctions into the pot.

His tiny kitchen window dripped from the steam of the earthy, hearty mushrooms entrenched with truffle emulsion. Shiny copper pots simmering reaching for their climax. The grilled still crisp asparagus glazed with a spicy Aztec chocolate sauce. He was like the black pepper, the paprika, and the course salt being drizzled into each pot. The mad scientist clanging a spoon into the liqueur soaked chocolate raisins, whipping his hair out of his face in one ungraceful movement while ripping apart a head of lettuce with potency.

The bread was sliced with vigor and the wine bottled knocked hard against the wine glass as he poured himself a generous amount. Food, like his hunger for life and love, was violently assassinated by his appetite. Then he would hurriedly set about to atone for the havoc, for the disrupting scene in the kitchen, in his life, the explosive and catastrophic attack to the food and the depravation of his own character.

Everywhere, after the storms of his performance, there was emotional desolation. The bursts of laughter shared with friends, the whirling of praise for his cuisine left many echoes and vibrations in the air. But the house was quiet and timid after the guests had gone home. He was like the last sip of wine in a glass that if taken would leave only traces of what was. The chef sat dwarfing over his red couch tending the unsatisfactory image that gave route to his thoughts. He stood up, paced the warmed red wood floors. He seemed to trapeze from one paradox of activity to another, skipping over the pause of stillness.

He stopped the rusticity of his movements, trying to focus on a sound coming from the house closest to his. It was poetry and seduction and light and peace and every other contradiction to his world. At the first slow stroke, the crescendo seeped through his thoughts like warm hot chocolate velour over a coconut ice-cream. The violin beckoning gently as it unwound, rising and tensing. It spiraled upward soothing his hunger with its lovely melody.

She saw him first through her kitchen window while quietly setting about making herself a cup of tea. She was a delicate image of a young woman with unassuming long brown hair and soft tiny freckles that sprinkled over her upturned nose. His pale face appeared at the window, smiled at her and vanished.

Some people stare at her. She is an almost hopelessly beautiful young woman, admired for her quiet beauty as much as for the deep undercurrent of passion that resonates from her violin. Her chin rests against the maple neck of her instrument. Her breasts caressed by the ribs of the violin. The bow brushed across the strings over its belly wearing down the tiny tips of her fingers. Its voice a sweet tune vibrated through her body like a lover. She is like the violin when it is tucked away in the case, hidden, only to be showcased as an acquaintance.

To her he was a figure garbed in passion and timidity. He haunted her sleep as she birthed the most evanescent image of him as her lover. His romantic conveyance bearing the same intense focus he held when in his kitchen. She wanted to be at the center of his turmoil. She had fallen in love with an erupting volcano.

The young violinist played for him that night, her right hand moved the bow at right angles across one string to another creating a musical passage of wispy sounding notes. She moved the bow faster, her small plump lips open, her bow pushing down harder with every move, intense sounds emergent of her desire to be marshaled by him.

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To have his cinnamon stained hands over her body.

He stood before her exactly as in her image, towering over her delicacy. Her stillness flowed around his fire, encircled his thrashing, and he encompassed her quietness. A perfect melody ensured. Savannah watched in amazement. Oliver began simply, softly, his grip light on her body, producing a soft, harmonic sound from deep place between her legs. The melody rolled over her, as cool and sweet as a note as hopeful and lovely as song. She watched his fingers in fascination tainted with soft sweet tones of nutmeg as they brushed over her nipples. An exquisite feel arose all over her body.

Savannah also felt the force of her love; the collision seemed to her the reality of passion.

When she closed her eyes she felt he had many hands which touched her everywhere. She felt his kisses between her parted legs. To him she tasted like bits of salted honey. She knelt down before Oliver unbuttoned his pants, took his penis into her small mouth and began to suck on it as if she was playing the violin. There was variety to her rhythms, gripping his immense penis with rigor to that of the light touch of the bow on the strings.

She began to frolic on top of him, giving rise to shivers of pleasure. She pulled him over her, enjoying being crushed under his body. Oliver in one swift and gentle move lifted Savannah up to slowly savor her body with his mouth as she descended on top of his waiting arousal. There love making was ravenous and quelling.

Savannah woke up the next morning feeling a sense of melancholy. She sat up in bed listening to the silent kitchen. She glanced over to the violin but the song lay muddled somewhere deep inside her. Oliver appeared at her window, his face awash with a warm blush and a gentle smile. He was making her eggs Benedict.

He was naked underneath his chef’s apron. She watched how focused he was on tenderly dropping an egg into a softly simmering pot. Oliver paused for a moment to kiss Savannah sweetly before swiftly picking her up and setting her on the kitchen island. He set about gradually whisking egg yolks over a supple heat for the hollandaise sauce. In a graceful move he turned to pull out the home-made biscuits from the stove and brushed them lightly with butter. Pleased with his breakfast cuisine he soothingly took hold of Savannah’s foot and kissed her pretty toes.

“Hungry?” He asked leaving a trail of kisses along her slender leg making his way up her inner thigh.

Something shifted in Savannah. She found herself roughly rubbing her wet pussy over Oliver’s mouth. She wanted to be devoured. Noises never before uttered were escaping her perfect little mouth.

“Fuck me Oliver. Fuck me hard!”

He lifted her up and off the island and thrust into her from behind. Her small breasts disappeared underneath his large thick hands. Red streaks marked her tiny waist as he lifted her up unto the tip of his cock before slamming her back down over and over.

In the thrones of pleasure Savannah violently flung everything within her reach from the kitchen island. Metal bowls clashing to the ground, spoons dripping with batter splattered the wall.

“Fuck me!” She demanded.

Oliver’s enormous cock shredded her pussy apart with every thrust. Her back arched against his chest, her arms reached towards the ceiling and her legs trembled around him. Her orgasm vibrated through her body giving rise to the song that had been buried deep inside of her. She was like the soloist being called back to receive applause to appease the audience with an extra piece. He was like a chef who received praise for his artistry in cuisine from critics during his tenure.

Food and music intertwined. Her melody was his…his hunger was hers.

Published 
Written by AlexaRey
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