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Dinner Date

Dinner Date

A little extra spice with dinner.
A bowl sits on my counter, tomatoes bright against the chopped greens through the clear glass. A pair of ruby red and white steaks lay on the sideboard, black and white speckles of salt and pepper dotting their surface, the beads of moisture on top revealing just how long they have waited. Staring at the clock, I blink back the dew that builds and threatens to spill over.

“He’s always a little late,” my voice sounds loud in the empty room. I pad back and forth, adjusting the napkins, the table, and the settings. The half empty glass at the sideboard gets my attention with each lap, golden rum draining away in increasingly larger swallows. 

My toes shine bright pink as I stalk the room, a change from the emerald green they had been after your last visit. I had been sulky then too. You drew a smile from me by taking over my painting of those toes, carefully, tongue protruding a little in concentration. Your fingers had stroked the thin skin across my ankle, leaving me to squirm on my seat, ticklish as you well knew. Once I had lost my battle to keep a frown, you were quick to press the advantage until I was clinging to your shoulders, gasping, while you thrust deep into my warmth. 

Of course, after that you left again.

The glitter of pink brings my gaze back to my toes. I tell myself you had to go; it’s your nature and your job. Knowing it doesn't stop the ache in my depths. Logic and emotions don’t mix. 

Flinging myself into the corner of the couch, my hair dances around me in a symphony of frustration. Even the cushions bounce a little with the violence of my movements. I curl those toes under me, digging into the upholstery. My fists press into my eyes.

I haven’t actually heard from you, and there has been no real reason to expect you. Except, it is Friday again, and I know you are home. Typically, you show up at dinner time, to share the chores and fun that go with it. But still I am alone in the house. The chunks of tart cheese waver and dance as I stare at them with brimming eyes. 

‘Should I go ahead, fix the meat? Eat? Or just go out?

I plan for your appearance; it’s been an unspoken pact. But lately, I find I am not the priority I should be. Maybe, leaving the house and heading out to a bar is what I need. What you need to see. My fists push into my soggy eyes, turning my fingers black with smeared mascara. 

‘You know what is going on. He just needs the time. Stop being so needy.’

The sound of boots on the stairs interrupts my stream of consciousness. I wipe at the smears of mascara, evidence of how these disappearances affect me, with fingers made clumsy by my haste and grab a nearby book, letting it fall open, unseen pages tumbling across my lap.

I’m not going to show him how worried I was. I’m not going to let him see how much I need him. I’m absolutely not going to give him that power. I will not…’

The door swings open and there you are. I can see you through the fringe of my lashes as I stay bent over my book. White socks, your boots now left by the door, dark jeans; why do you look so at home here?

‘I won’t go to him. Give him a taste of what it feels like to want.’ Useless thoughts. 

“Hey, baby, I’m here.” Surreptitious glances reveal lips curving the stubbly cheeks up. They crinkle the skin at the corners of his eyes into a smile, just like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

‘Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Not yet.’

I drop the book to the couch, the corners of my lips smiling an answer, tension falling with an exhaled breath as I take you in. 'When did I start holding my breath? Must have been when I heard your boots. How many times have I imagined the sound only to realize it was my imagination?' 

Springing up from my seat in the corner of the couch, I wrap my arms around you. 

"Baby, I've missed you," I murmur against your chest, crisp linen against my cheek. The muscles there are hard, evidence of hard work and sweat. My fingers touch the same tautness in your back. The cotton over the skin of my back slides under your hands as your arms, finely lined with those muscles, pull me in, cocooning me in the heat of you.

Inhaling, I soak in your scent, manly: soap, salt, and cologne. The heady mixture rushes through me, driving the heat before it. I feel the moisture start to flow, soaking into the center panel of my panties, as I flush, a heated excitement running up my neck.

"Oh dear, you know that sometimes I can't be here." You stroke the skin of my back, fingers straying just under the edge of my shirt. I look up at you. Your dark hair curls along your face, framing those green flecked hazel eyes.

A half smile tugs at my lips; you will leave, again, and I'll be frustrated, again. I know you need your space. I indulge you because I know that you will be back. Right now, that doesn't matter. Right now, you are here. My face pressed against your chest, your button on my nose. I clutch tight, drowning in your essence.

I kiss you, soft lips touching easy at first; your eyes crinkle, smiling at me. I reach up to knot my fingers in your hair, dragging your mouth deeper to me, eyes closing. Our tongues touch and tangle, spicy rum tangling with the bitter beer you drink.

Backing off, I look at you, fingers still snagged in your hair. My eyes roll down your shirt, where the triangle of tanned flesh glows against the white fabric at the neck. I trace my finger across the nape of your neck, then lean forward, and run my tongue across the soft skin that flutters with your pulse, tasting the sweat.

The rasp of your roughened fingers leaves chills as it lifts the edges of my shirt, conditioned air blowing cool against my heated flesh. Teasing touches.

Crossing my arms and yanking, I tug the shirt off over my head. Your eyes follow my movements, the pulse at your throat now jumping visibly. Standing there in my skirt and bra, just lilac lace covering the mounds that rise and fall as I breathe in short excited gasps. You bring your hands up, and touch them through the lace, the nipples hardening and standing out at your touch. 

I pick your shirt buttons open, one, then two. The creamy white collar falls open, revealing more tan skin. Now buttons three and four fall prey to my questing fingers. Dark hair curls there and I can’t resist the temptation. Your shirt is barely hanging on you now anyway. Leaving the rest, I run my hands across your chest, feeling the lines of your muscles under my fingertips. I explore with them, my lips joining to touch the soft plumpness on your hard flesh, drawing down the linen, to your belt. 

Fumbling with it, I struggle to unfasten the clasp. Your scent has left me clumsy. I'm an addict who just wants her next fix. I can't think save for the need of you. You twist my hard nubs, electrifying an ache straight to my core. I pull harder at your belt, sucking at my lower lip, biting it, as I wrinkle my nose in consternation. You cease kneading my lace clad breasts and push away my struggling hands. 

“Let me do that for you.” Your voice is low and smoldering as you unfasten the object of my frustration. 

I sigh and sink to my knees, tongue darting out to wet my lips with anticipation, and then look up at you. Your beautiful eyes focus on mine, and it is easy see that right now, there is nowhere you'd rather be than standing here in my living room. I know mine are showing you the same thing. Lust and need. 

I unzip your jeans with a dexterity that was missing mere moments ago. Protruding, encased in its cotton, is all the evidence I need to know how much you are looking forward to this as well. Your pants settle to your hips as I snare my fingers on your briefs and tug, pulling them and the snug jeans down your legs. The hair on your thighs is bristly against my fingertips as I trace my fingers along them to your slim hips, then around to the bundled muscle in the back. 

The satin skin of your cock gleams as it projects out from the trimmed curls. Exhaling, I lean close and breathe along it. Then lightly draw my tongue along the smooth surface. It jumps and twitches as if with a mind of its own as you let out a groan. 

I smile a little, enjoying the effect I am having on you. You pull my hair up in a handful, pieces of it escaping, dangling down to brush across my breasts. My lips circle your beautiful cock in a red O, lipstick bright against your skin as they slide down. That glossy skin slips over my wet tongue, hard ridge of the head pressing against the back of my throat. Your girth distends my cheeks. The urge to gag builds, and my shoulders hump as I swallow to work my way down farther. Gingerly pressing just a bit farther, I open my jaws wide to allow access before retreating back up the shaft, only to plunge down again.

"Good girl," you breathe to me. 

I work, tongue and lips coordinating to stroke your shaft, pulling you deep in my wet mouth. Red stained lips puckering around you now, pressing tight, squeezing. They draw back and forth as I thrust your cock deep in my mouth, pulling as my head lifts, and then pressing against my teeth as I push down again. I am working hard to take you completely, but your length causes me to struggle, gag a little and catch my breath. It’s the best kind of struggle. I am straining, striving to fill that void. Saliva covers your shaft; each wet stroke sounds sloppy as I draw up and down your rock hard cock with those red lips. A drip leaks from the corner of my mouth and runs down under my lips. 

"That's my angel." Your hands are tight on my hair, holding it back out of my face. Bits of it that still stray dance and tickle along my back but most of its weight is massed in your fist.

I turn my gaze from that gorgeous cock to your eyes. I smile at you, lips still tightly wrapped around your staff. Watching you, I push deep, taking you all the way. My eyes water with the effort, and if it weren't for those puckered straining lips I'd never make it, but I finally feel the base against them. I hold and work my tongue against the underside, stroking it. Backing off, I gasp quickly then return to stroking you. 

My hands on your ass stray. I bring one up under my skirt, working it under the scrap of intimate lace there. I am sopping wet, as I always am when you have me here. I got wet the moment I caught a hit of your scent, and now with you snarled in my hair and claiming my mouth, I am dripping. You fill me and surround me. I work my fingers at my button, stroking it as I stroke you. Oiled from my secretions, they slide easily across the swollen nub, teasing as I circle and rub. My weight rests on my out stretched toes with the muscle prominent across the top of my spread thighs. Tension runs through all the muscles, pulling me along, speeding me along. 

I push past my greedy button and pump a finger, then two, into my slit. Moaning with my mouth full, I am crammed full of you, stuffing my gluttonous holes. I hold tight to you with my remaining hand as I fuck myself at both ends, eagerly playing your dirty slut, your dirty girl. Your hands drag me along your shaft, setting the pace. The hands in my hair are not merely holding it back. Pushing and pulling, they bob my head up and down.

The hand in my hair taking control is the straw that pushes me over the edge. I gasp, short desperate sucks for air that break the seal of my lips. The moan deep in my throat as I start to come rumbles, vibrating around you. Shoulders thrusting with my back’s arch, my knees sink to the floor. Clutching with the sole remaining hand on the clenched cheek of your butt, I suck you hard, pulling with my tongue, with my lips, with my throat. The tension runs through me. It’s radiating out from my core to my toes scrunching up, to make my lips press together in hard ridges as they advance and retreat along your shaft. The fingers buried in my pussy ratchet in and out, juice dripping over them onto the hardwood floors. My thumb rubs furiously at my clit as I churn at your knees, back arching and impaling that pocket deeper. 

"You like being my dirty girl." You pull harder on my hair, thrusting back against mouth, claiming it as yours. Burying deep into me, and then hauling back, you assault my ravenous mouth again and again. 

I sob my reply back, sloppy fingers making their way from inside my now flooded panties to gently stroke your nuggets, whose skin wrinkles and pulls tight with my touch, for these final strokes. I consume your cock, making it very clear I want you to fill me with your greatest gift. 

You spurt out, flooding my mouth with your cream. I swallow, devouring all but a small dribble that escapes the edge. But I scoop the drip with my finger, returning it to my mouth. Your cock twitches on my tongue and I am gentle now as I caress my lips on it, cleaning off the last of your seed. Your hands still hold my hair, but now they too are gentle, playing with the tangled strands.

I hook my fingers under the elastic and stretch your drawers up and over your now drained and soft member, careful to not let go until it is clear, then letting them snap back against your waist. Standing, I pull your jeans back up over your hips and smile. 

"I love when you come for dinner..."


This story is only available on Lush. If you are reading it anywhere else, it has been stolen by scum who need to be strained from the pond.

A very special Thank You to my very best "Bitch Eyes," Delphi <3

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © ©2011 All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced in any manner, without the express permission of the author.

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