Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

Miso Soup

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Perhaps not most times, but this time belongs to some of those when I found the absence of a kitchen-island a benefit. The space was perfect for one. It actually felt sort of incomplete not having one there, but, I’m not complaining. In fact, today I rejoice because there was no island in that sea.

I had walked into the flat later than usual. The view from the entrance of the flat was the kitchen; specifically, the kitchen sink. But that night I didn’t see a kitchen sink, I saw your body standing half covered, back facing towards the door, heard water running. Your back was covered with my black-button-down-shirt, at least most of it – the shirt hung down on your left shoulder exposing your skin.

Your hips swiveled every so slightly to whatever music was escaping the headphones covering your ears. Whatever music it played, it must have been wonderful because my reaction was immediate. I knew what I wanted to do and how long it would take me.

Miso SoupAs I grew closer to the kitchen, it was apparent that you were cleaning dishes in which to cook and serve your store-packaged miso soup. It wasn’t just packaged miso, you made it your own by adding scallions. Terribly you, enhancing those things lacking character. There you stood, water running through the dish, your hands, lower body swaying to stimulating music, the black button-down intimating delights through the parts unable to cover.

There was no reaction to the touch of my hand upon your exposed shoulder. It was no secret that anyone walking through that door had to be me, there was really no reason to be alarmed. The first reaction came upon placing my lips on that very exposed shoulder. A lean of the head to the right alerted that you enjoyed my presence, even when late without notification. I spent little time indulging your shoulder; the fact was that I hadn’t a care to…

My left hand quickly revealed to the room that hidden behind the black shirt was no other garment. I lifted the shirt, peeked over and smiled at the sight. There was no care in the world in you, no care about what I might have desired. The hips continued to sway slow, fast, slow as if following some sort of syncopated rhythm. It was delight to my whim… made me feel as if a kid during the first field day at grade school: eager to participate.

I took a knee to bring my lips just to the proper height. Pulled the shirt up and slid my head under it hiding my actions from the entire room. My hands ran from down your ankles, slowly up on the side all the way to your hips, and back to meet at the small of the back, where I proceeded to press against each cheek flat with my hands while the thumbs slightly pushed them apart from one another. I continued on that south bound journey until I met her.

I didn’t act immediately, I stood in her presence while waiting for you to stop washing dishes; you didn’t. Noticing that you hadn’t intentions of stopping, my hands retraced their journey back to the small of the back, where I pressed firmly with my lips and began to search for pleasure. I bit each cheek, sometimes soft, other times hard. I nourished on each one and all in between as if starved for a meal. I had all the utensils necessary to consume you. And by your pushes against my face, I knew you qualified as a meal.

A small pull at your waist, a slide of your feet to the sides… there! Time to wander about in a world of delight. But all it took was knowing that you were already saturated, you had readily felt my intentions and planed little resistance welcoming me. Without time to waste, I got on my feet, wrapped you in an embrace, took a hold of the shirt at the buttons seam, and forcefully tore it. You stood exposed to the escape of water in the sink. There was nothing dirty inside the sink by this point, yet the water remained fully opened.

Zipper flies open. There isn’t a need to remove the pants. All I want to do is feel medieval. Out of the zipper opening I came out, already seduced. I pulled the back of the black shirt dangling on the back of your body up to mid way of your back so that a clear path for my vision was created. My hips moved closer, I firmly grasped myself and slid it up and down again, feeling the warmth and saturation awaiting me. I shoved in… quickly consumed by you. I knew you wanted it from your lack of resistance… form the shift of your hips about trying to create a better angle in which to be handled.

Thrusts became increasingly violent, as did my need to consume you. I wanted more of a view of us engaged in full action. Thoughts of animalistic responses overtook me. I pressed down on your head causing your upper body to go parallel to the floor, your head ending right under the running water of the faucet. Water splashed against the back of your head, spreading distress throughout the counter-top and floor.

My pelvis collided against your backside while water struck the back of your head. Your soaked-long-hair giving to gravity crafted paths of joy for the rushing water. I could hear you suffocating in pleasure, and it made want to see your face. A chunk of hair grasped in my hands succumbed to my whim by bringing you up straight. Wet strands went flying in all directions… smacking me on the face. Other stayed attached to your face, to your open mouth while droplets ran the length of your face. By now water had reached your chest, rushing down the belly, the navel, almost meeting the moisture of our actions.

There is joy in the sound of crashing bodies; joy in the sound of saturation as I travel inside and out; joy in knowing that the miso soup was never meant to be had. I had you that day, removed all hunger from miso soup from you.

The package laid there, drenched in distress droplets, waiting to be consumed, just not today.

Author: jibarican

https://crimsoncrossing.wordpress.com

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