Home Cookin’ (Hot Sex over the Stove)
♫ Hey, good lookin'...... What's ya got cookin'...…? ♫
( Or, 'When A Woman Loves To Cook' )
They were not fond of the fast food places that the Plasticos ate at, all full of chemicals and neon-colored cheese. Venecia and Tomek were, after all, island members of the ‘Naturals’ tribe. So they bought the best vegetables they could find and cooked them up at home. They'd cart in backpacks full from forays in the markets.
Today Venecia was at the stove, cooking. And like many husbands, Tomek liked to watch his wife cook. There was something so elemental about it, that gave him a warm, deep, homey satisfaction. It wasn't the food per se, — he could have hired a maid or a cook, or done it himself, but it wouldn't have been the same. He liked watching her in her long skirts as she hustled about the kitchen. Or often, she cooked in the nude, all nude, and you can bet he liked to watch her like that.
Or perhaps even better, more ‘teasing’, see wore some flimsy nightie, transparent, as she cooked. Today, she had on a mid-length, flowing skirt. That floated and moved and swayed as she walked. A faded, pumpkin colored skirt.
And, by one of those strange coincidences that sometimes happens in life, the song that came in through the radio was that old jazz tune:
♫ Hey, good lookin'...... What's ya got cookin'....?
How's about cookin' sumthin' up with me....? ♫
As the song played, he went up to her, and kissed her. His hand caressed her bottom, and then slipped under her skirt, where, he was pleased to find, she was not wearing any panties, as she sometimes did. He caressed the round smoothness of her bottom, and kissed her on the neck, and made himself a pest while she was trying to cook, — but, she didn't mind!
He sang into her ear:
♫ Hey, good lookin'...... What's ya got cookin'......? ♫
He kept pressing himself against her. She kept stirring, and things stirred up.
She felt her skirt being risen up over her rump, and then his hardness as it slid on into her. But he insisted that she keep on stirring, keep on cooking. And so they tried to match their rhythms, the stirring around of his phallic rod in her honeypot, the steaming, vaginal, primal witch's pot below, matching up with the stirring of her ladle in the big cooking pot above, all bubbling and steaming. The brew. She's a witch.
They did this awhile; it takes awhile to cook. You don't want to turn it up so hot it cooks too fast and burns. She'd learned its even the same with a man, — you don't want to cook him in your witchy oven too fast, or he'll burn out in two minutes flat. No taste. Meanwhile, the more he pounded her, the more her head hung lower over the cooking pot, so she was getting a facial spa treatment from its aromatic steams.
When she had to go across the kitchen to get something, to add some spice to their mix, he'd move with her. They were conjoined, and shuffled like that across the floor, his hands on her hips. It was slow cooking, a slow cooker, but it had been a long time since she'd enjoyed cooking so much!
It's not true that two cooks in the kitchen make a bad batch. They can make a very good brew indeed.
They moved to the table like this as she set the table and served the food. She lit one candle for them. ''One good candle is all one needs.''
Then, as if in some prayer, some offering for the food, he bent her over the table and began ramming it home, hitting and pounding her hard with his own ‘man candle’. So she cried out her prayers, and fell upon her elbows, over the food, with her hair tumbling down all around the dishes, like a tent.
Howling, ''God, oh, God.....!''
They were to repeat this with a fair amount of regularity. He knew how to keep a wife happily cooking.
Once, as she came, her head fell into a big platter of mashed potatoes, mutton, and gravy. She sat there laughing and weeping, afterwards.
He licked it slowly off her face.
They then sat there in the candlelight of their one candle, and ate quietly, in the flickering shadows. It was all very romantic.