Morning at the (Kitchen) Window

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John and Jo find a few cheeky moments together over coffee.
1.5k words
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It's the mornings after we've fucked all night that I relish most. But, why? Do these diurnal moments compare to our tangled, sweaty couplings of the evening prior? Can they be measured against the number of times I screamed your name with abandon, chanted it over and over like a prayer, moaned it like an expletive?

In the bright and pure light of this late spring morning, I think they do. As I look out of my kitchen window and listen to the coffee machine percolate and sputter, I think they can. As I stand here in your undershirt with the taste of your body still on my lips and you still asleep in my bed, I close my eyes and remember your touch, your taste, your words -- you. I turn away from the window and meditate on our communal pleasure, and I experience it again leaned up against my kitchen sink, eyes closed, with a cup of coffee in my right hand. My left hand rests on the edge of the sink behind me. I can hardly breathe: my memory of you, of your body, paralyzes me in half-remembered ecstasy.

"Jo. What are you doing?"

Your voice interrupts my lusty daydreaming. In shimmying out of bed (and shimmying into your undershirt), I thought I had managed not to wake you. I look over at you and your gaze enflames my senses, my good sense.

You're standing behind the kitchen counter, awaiting my answer. Your expression is difficult to read, but the timbre of your voice is not. My eyes sweep over you: your shaved head, which I pushed down between my legs last night; your mouth, now with the same crooked smile I saw last night as you removed your belt and unbuttoned your jeans; your chest, masculine with a sprinkling of soft hair. From where I'm standing, I can only see you from your waist up — I can't tell if you've pulled on your boxers or not; I pray you haven't.

"What does it look like I'm doing, John?" I ask, and I take a sip of coffee. I saunter towards the refrigerator for some milk, and I feel shy -- giddy, even. We both know the chapter and verse of this scene, the unspoken rules of this game -- our game. I feel your gaze on my legs, my ass. I blush when I remember how you touched and possessed these parts of me just hours ago.

You grab my free hand by the wrist and slowly back me up against the cool metal of the refrigerator. You press your body into mine, and I can feel how aroused you are. Either you weren't wearing those boxers, or you've made quick work of them.

You lean in — your face millimeters from my own — and whisper, "It looks like you're drinking this ridiculous kind of coffee again, my darling." I laugh impulsively, remembering our first date: I teased you for being fussy when you revealed your incredibly discriminating coffee preferences; I, however, am not fussy at all, and you flirtatiously called me a philistine in response to my playful taunts. It is in these differences of ours -- whether vast or, as here, trivial -- where our capacious lust for one another was engendered, where it now breeds and incites further salaciousness.

Your blue eyes, bright and coruscating, flash in response to my spontaneous laughter, and one of your hands clasps over my mouth. You pause momentarily to bite the tender flesh on my neck (and you pause a moment longer in noticing how your teeth on my skin made me shiver) before swiftly extricating the cup from my hand, taking a sip of coffee from it, grimacing, and letting the porcelain mug drop to the floor. It shatters, and coffee swirls and trickles circuitously near our feet. We ignore it. You kiss me hard, both of your hands on my waist now, and I taste the coffee (now both sweet and deliciously tart from your mouth) on your lips and tongue. The flavor — your flavor — intoxicates me.

My arms engirdle your neck and rest on your shoulders, and one of your hands slides up my (your) shirt to properly twist and tease one of my nipples. I break our kiss out of necessity: the sensation of your lively fingers on my taut nipples is too immediate, too overwhelming. Every fiber of my self-control, every molecule of my being subordinates itself to whatever delectation you might choose to mine from my body. My head falls back in surrender. I moan and start to lose myself in your assertiveness, in how deliciously us this interlude is: an erotic exploration of an inside joke; the intersection of intellect and physicality. There is a particular and singular urgency in the way we touch one another this morning.

"Bend over the counter," you instruct. You give my ass a firm squeeze and a hard smack as I wriggle away, drunk with anticipation. I comply, shrugging out of my (your) shirt and letting it fall to the floor before positioning myself as you've asked me to.

I feel one of your hands caress on the small of my back before settling on my hip. Your other hand has traveled up my right thigh and is now teasing, exploring, evaluating the most intimate part of me, now imbued with evidence of my ardor. You say nothing, but I hear your breathing quicken.

You withdraw your teasing fingers and thrust your cock inside me suddenly and aggressively; a strangled scream of rapture mingled with shock escapes my throat. Your fingers find their way to my mouth so that I can taste myself, and you mutter, "That's right — something to get... the taste... of that... unbearable... coffee... out of... your... mouth," between thrusts. My response is a hearty laugh intermingled with a deep, guttural moan: you have the uncommon ability to make me laugh while fucking me senseless.

We find our rhythm, and my hands grip the edge of the counter for leverage. Your fingernails dig into my soft flesh. Sweat pools between my breasts, on my lower back, at my hairline; your thrusts remain slow and deep. I prostrate my upper body on the kitchen counter and grind back into you, demanding as much of you as you will give me. You respond with a growl of approval as you put your right hand on my right shoulder for more leverage.

You drive into me harder, and I wonder to myself how we both must look from a voyeur's perspective. You, your sinewy muscles arching and tightening as you gradually coax this dark, familiar pleasure of ours from both of our bodies; and me, with my legs spread and my mouth open and my long, dark hair tousled and tangled. The exquisite wantonness of this image in my mind catalyzes my release, and I feel your movements quicken as you chase after my bliss with your own.

The upper half of my body rests on the kitchen counter with my face down towards its surface as I catch my breath; in a complementary gesture, you lean against the counter opposite me while you collect yourself. You reach over to touch me, your fingers nimbly tracing along the grooves and dells of the flesh of my back, navigating my body in a new and tender fashion. I turn my head towards you and rest it on my folded arms, but my eyes remain closed as I enjoy the delicate simplicity of feeling your fingertips skip and tumble across my skin.

"Get dressed, my darling." Your voice punctuates my reverie just as it had earlier while I was looking out the kitchen window: every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning. With you, there is poetry, a cyclical nature and spirit, in all of our shared moments. It blesses me more than I know.

I unfold myself up from the counter and smile. "Where are we going?" I reach down to retrieve your undershirt. You stand up to your full height and place your hands on my shoulders, tickling these curves of my body you love so well. The man who bent me over my kitchen counter is gone for the moment. In this liminal post-coital space, you are John -- my John -- once again: elegant and articulate and quietly playful.

Your hands slowly run down the bare skin of my arms from my shoulders to my wrists, a simple caress that provokes my nipples to tighten and pucker. You smirk and kiss my neck. In response, I put my hands on your hips and absentmindedly trace circles on the soft skin of your groin, a cheeky caress that induces a slight and involuntary twitch of arousal from your cock. You notice, I notice; we smile.

"We're going out. I'm going to buy you -- us -- some proper coffee." You kiss me with a grin, snatch your undershirt from my hands, and move towards the bedroom to put on your trousers. I remain in the kitchen for a moment, lingering to savor the sight of your naked form in the morning light.

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AnonymousAnonymousalmost 6 years ago
Wow

I wish all mornings could be like that!

MoogPlayerMoogPlayeralmost 6 years ago
Brilliant!!!!

I really liked this one. Keep up the good work.

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