Come for Dinner

Mr. Costello challenged me to a smut duel. 300-500 words on a prompt of my choosing. The person with the most likes by noon Eastern Time on Friday wins. So, please read and like, either here or on Twitter. Thanks! (And check his out, too, here: https://www.etcostello.com/2018/08/14/after-this-well-have-tacos/)

The prompt is “tacos.”

 

She liked to make her own corn tortillas. It was meditative, it had rhythm.

“Sure, come over any time. Let yourself in. I’m making tacos.”

Her cheeks flushed at the thought of him, or maybe it was the pan of sizzling oil she stood over.

She rolled the dough into balls. She would press one flat, put it on the hot skillet, press another one, and hold it until the previous one cooked. It kept both her hands full, holding an uncooked tortilla while tending to a cooking one with a spatula.

She was in a sort of trance, press, cook, press, cook, when she heard the front door open slightly. “I’m in here!” she called out.

She glanced at him as he appeared in the kitchen, and smiled. “Hey,” she said quietly, then turned back to the skillet.

He moved behind her. She was very aware of his tall frame hovering over her. “Hey,” he whispered in her ear. He placed his hands on her hips, grasping her tightly. The spatula she held trembled slightly. “Don’t let me stop you,” he whispered.

He thumbs ran up and down her sides while his hands rested on her hips. She closed her eyes and leaned against him for a moment. She smelled burning corn meal and opened her eyes, flipping the tortilla quickly off the skillet.

“Keep working,” he whispered. One of his hands slid into the waistband of her jeans. “Don’t come,” he whispered, and the command made her ache to come suddenly. He slipped one finger under her panties, brushed her clit. She sucked in her breath, staring at the tortilla in the pan.

“You’re wet,” he whispered, as one finger, then two slipped into her.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” she murmured, shakily reaching for another ball of dough. But she stopped before she got to the tortilla press, squeezing the dough involuntarily as he held her tightly against him. She felt his hard cock pressed against her ass. She wanted to abandon dinner-making entirely.

His finger inside her, his thumb brushing her clit. “Not yet,” he whispered. “You’re burning another one.”

She dropped the spatula and turned the burner off. She dropped her hand with the dough in it, leaving a streak across his jeans as she grabbed his thigh.

“Please,” she moaned.

With his free hand he pushed her jeans and panties down, then undid his own belt and jeans. His fingers slid out of her and rested on her clit as his cock slid in. “Not yet,” he whispered, rubbing her clit as he filled her. She she wanted to feel him touch the deep places inside her. Slowly, he moved. A rhythm, meditation.

“Please let me come,” she begged.

He paused before saying, “Yes.”

She screamed. Short, but powerful. She clenched around his cock until she was spent.

“I’ll come later,” he promised, kissing her neck as she leaned on him for support. “You go lie down. I’ll finish making the tacos.”

Advertisements

February 7 and Wicked Wednesday: Rainbow

DSC_0001

I love rainbow-stripe clothing. It makes me so happy to see those colorful stripes.

That’s the Wicked Wednesday post I started to write to go along with a FebPhotofest picture for today.

But last night Mr. Scott took out a toy we haven’t used in awhile and it reminded me of the time we used it, which happens to be the last time I saw a rainbow, also.

We’d dropped off our daughter for a sleepover with friends and rushed home to have sex before we had to go out ourselves. We were going to a surprise party so we had to leave by a certain time. With that toy, however, Mr. Scott kept me on edge for so long that by the time I finally came, there was no time for a shower. I barely had enough time to throw my clothes on and smooth down my hair a bit.

It was a summer evening. It was sunny between passing thunderstorms. On the drive to the party, down a long, straight highway, one of the largest, brightest rainbows I’d ever seen stretched over the road. It stayed with us for several miles before the next storm caught up to us and made it dissipate.

I knew I looked like I’d just had sex. I wondered if people at the party would smell it on me. I felt sexy and confident. I wanted to say to everyone there, “We are parents and in our forties and we just had great sex.” Instead, however, I brought up the amazing rainbow we’d seen on the drive down. Most others had seen it, too. And I wondered who else had the same pre-party secret as us.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

February Photofest

 

“Libraries Gave Us Power”

Quiet room. But not entirely still. Swoosh of turning pages, heavy sighs, chair leg pushing across smooth carpet. Run my fingers down the spines of the books. Feeling the fabric. The cardboard. The little reference number stickers with the corners starting to peel off. Breathe in deep. Old paper and new.

A creak in the floor announced my presence. I froze. My cheeks flushed. I prayed no one would look up and see me.

Even as a small child I knew there was something illicit about going into the grown-up room of the library. Even though I was so small I didn’t know the word illicit. I had to walk past the stern librarian to get there. Heart pounding. I always kept my eyes forward to avoid her stare and any questions.

I’d smile. I knew I was doing something wrong. But by whose standards, I wasn’t sure. My parents didn’t care. So why did anyone else? Except that it was a small town and everyone cared.

I’d walk down the aisles. I never looked for anything specific. I just enjoyed the thrill of being there. Of not knowing why exactly if felt so thrilling.

The grown-up room was mostly nonfiction, however. The juicy romance paperbacks were kept on a spinner rack next to the librarian’s desk, directly under that stern glare. It was my next challenge, once I outgrew the thrill of the grown-up room.

I’d spin the racks slowly. They always let out a groan of protest. Even with my back to the desk, my cheeks would heat up and go scarlet, knowing the librarian looked up at the noise. Slipping out an old paperback worn smooth, peeking at the cover.

I was certain everyone in the library was watching me, a gawky, nerdy young teen, with no boobs and no chance of having a boyfriend, pick up books from the romance shelf. Taking those books to the desk was like an out-of-body experience. This was back when you had to hand your books over to the librarian and the town was so small, there were no library cards. The librarian knew who your parents were. I pretended to ignore the books I was checking out. I’d absentmindedly finger the corner of a bookmark or flyer left on the desk, avoiding eye contact with everyone in hopes they wouldn’t remark on my books.

Now I want it to be someone’s business. I have the power, not the stern librarian. I can request anything from The Purity Myth to Lady Chatterly’s Lover to Little Birds from the library and someone has to find that book and put it on the shelf for me. Someone will think about me reading that book. Someone will see me reading that book. And maybe that someone will think about reading that book themselves. Give in to the thrill.

This if for Exhibit A’s Song Lyric Contest. Check out the entries HERE.