Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

Mocha Cake

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I am gullible, I believe in many things; yet, chance, coincidence, nor accidents are among them. So, after repeated failed attempts to contact you, I knew that I had to take the two hour drive down to see you. For the duration of the trip I wondered what could have happened this time that kept you from entertaining my calls.

It didn’t take ten minutes for the two hours to pass by… thinking of you has always accelerated time. I had nothing more to do than to follow the aroma of mocha from the entrance of your building, up the escalators, right into your flat on the fourth floor. Knock, Knock… The door opens to your presence. I can already notice from your hair that the past few days haven’t been much of a joy. It’s not that the hair is unsuitable for visitors, but that it was cut shorter than you had confided in me last we spoke. The displeasure was apparent, and to increase lament, your precious mobile laid on the floor in pieces. You tried to salvage it from a small water accident but, it’s condition on the floor spoke of failed attempts.

We never really do speak much when in person. This time was much the same. A gentle embrace while softly whispering, “I’ll help you forget. If just for a few minutes.” Quickly after, we walked over to the kitchen where the one solution to the ordinary week was brewing: baking – the one discipline that lured you from lament straight into sensory intoxication. I came precisely at the correct time. The kitchen at it’s usual mess when you bake… a lovely sight, actually.

I opened the fridge, grabbed a large bowl filled with raspberries, placed it on the countertop, then pulled a bar-stool chair and sat down to watch you bake. You are a flawless lover to the kitchen. Knowing how, why and when to raise its temperature, or simply cool it off. I don’t watch in jealousy, rather in bliss. I dream of your hands not grabbing the handles of a baking tray, but holding my hands and creating with me the delicacies made in that oven.

I wanted to be a piece of that mocha cake, stand back, unmoved, stoic, and watch as your hand came in my direction with the total intention of consuming me; to feel the caress of your hand on my body, causing turmoil in my soul; awaiting the final approach into your mouth where I would finally show you how your touch made me melt. I wanted to be intertwined with you tongue, being where I could taste your essence while mine blossomed in your mouth causing you to moan from the oral pleasure. Your saliva joining the moisture being drawn out of me. Oh, how sometimes I beg that I really was made from mocha and chocolate.

But know that I don’t disappear watching you handle the kitchen as you do, because times like now, I get to watch you walk towards me. I hold the key to the completion of this masterpiece: the raspberries. I wait my turn, more times than not, without any dialogue. There need be none, because what you say through the baking of that cake makes my heart skip beats, and my lips palpitate.

It takes a few moments for you to reach me. The ripples sent out by my soul cause shivers in my body. It’s the joy of your expected touch finally coming afloat. I know why you’ve come. And, with pleasure I will server you. The soft of your eyes speak to me as if asking to relinquish a guard where there hasn’t been any. We embrace, chest to chest. I pull my legs apart so that your body fits tightly to mine, where if clothing were minimal, the warmth of our bodies would couple.

Before walking away, we stare just long enough… I’m drawn deeply into you, as you are into me. The separation of our eyes feels like the snap of a rubber band. It takes long enough to gather my wits. I struggle to know where I am, but have no doubt about what I’m feeling. You’ll return into my arms, not too soon, nor late, just when it’s required. It’s time for reality to escape into being that mocha piece of cake.

The piece of cake that leaves traces of itself upon your lips; traces that fall prey to gravity, falling upon your lace apron, which I wonder if you do use… because you lust chocolate as I lust, you.
I’m an attentive man, and I stand back awaiting for your tongue to be unleashed upon your lips to collect the residue remaining on them. I sweat, not because the warmth of the oven is bearing on me. But, because I’ve too, experienced the intimacy of your tongue.

Mocha CakeYour hands work as if with a mind of their own, crafting and shaping layered, marble, and a straight mocha cake. Chocolate covers half the kitchen. You’ve never really been one to care much about remnants of an artist’s work. I can hear the countertop, plates, ladles, and frosting spatula converse of ecstasy, telling each other of the hands that’s handled them; speak of the touch from hands that decay sadness; hands filled with intention; filled with a purpose that emotion is not just a thing to feel or give, but to create as well.

I apologize to myself for the interruption, yet I must speak again. “The raspberries feel neglected. Just a smile, I believe they need it.” You’re in tune enough to walk over. This time quicker than last, much to my delight. You stand in front of me, seducing a man who wants to hold your heart.

I place a raspberry between my thumb and index finger. I watch, because I know what’s coming. The slight break of your lips, exposing your upper teach, slightly opening just so that I can reach with the raspberry and place it between your lips. I’m at a loss whether to lock sights with you, or watch the berry be taken inside of you. I swear I can hear it speak as you squeeze it, releasing its nectar. “I’m finally yours!”, it says, “I’m finally yours”.

This time you just don’t leave me behind, but lean over, reach just slight to the side of my mouth. That little corner of my lips, where they end, and the cheeks begin, and place a kiss entrenched in chocolate, mocha, raspberry and your essence. “I love you”, I whisper as she walks away with soft eyes.

Even the imperfection of your hair, and the scatter contents of your mobile make my whim beg to be touched.

Author: jibarican

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