Cooking Up Kink

SOMMER MARSDEN

We were supposed to be cleaning the house out a few weeks ago. The plan was to gather everything we didn’t use and donate it to charity. Better karma, cleaner house. The kitchen was the hardest because Dean is the kind of man who loves to cook and loves gadgets. We owned almost everything you can imagine for the kitchen marked AS SEEN ON TV.

I pulled out a long tool with a many-stranded silicone head. It was almost as big as a large paintbrush but not quite. I waved it at him. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s a baster,” he said. “Or a grill mop. Or whatever you call it.”

“You own the thing, and you don’t know what to call it?”

“It came with something.”

“What?” I asked, studying the bright-green silicone mop head.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “The rotisserie?”

I dropped the item in the donate pile since we hadn’t used the rotisserie in more than a year, and he’d agreed to get rid of it.

“Hey!” Dean said, snatching it up. “I need that.”

“For what?”

He considered it for a moment. “It’s cool.”

“It goes.”

He let his gaze roam over me and then his mouth twisted in a smirk. “I need it.”

“For what?” I asked again.

He grabbed a clean tea towel, and lightning fast, he dropped the mop, grabbed my wrists and twisted the towel around them, binding me. I blinked, confused but undeniably turned on.

“For what?” I murmured for lack of something more intelligent

to say.

“For this.” He walked behind me and pulled my sweatpants down. I was dressed for cleaning—not for sex—but beneath the baggy sweats I was bare.

He pushed me forward, and I rested my wrists on the sink’s edge. The brush came down hard on my asscheek, and I yelped. The strands stung more than I’d expected, the silicone tail delivering a stinging bite.

“What’s this?” I managed to stutter.

“Punishment for making me get rid of my toys.”

My pussy became drenched at the word “punishment.”

He lashed me softly with the head of the mop. I found myself flinching at first, but then as the pain faded into a warm, pulsing pleasure, I found myself pushing back, begging for more with my body.

“Look at you,” he said, and the words brought a shameful heat to my cheeks.

He stilled the barbeque mop for an instant and slipped a finger into my pussy.

“Soaking wet,” he declared, wiggling his finger deep inside me. I bit my lip and tried to focus on not coming undone. I was shocked at my reaction, and yet, I reveled in the sensation. It was freeing.

He pushed a second finger into my cunt and proceeded to fuck me very, very slowly. I realized I was holding my breath, trying to focus on and capture every flicker of stimulation he was delivering.

“Lean forward.” I obeyed, but he insisted, “More.”

I followed his command instantly, leaning over the sink even farther with my hair hanging down and my ass out.

Dean worked a third finger into me and thrust up hard. He filled my pussy, and my heart skittered.

His other hand worked a steady rhythm with the tool. Slap, slap, slap—pause. Then his fingers tormented me again, thrusting and curling.

I was panting, my fingers warring with themselves inside my bonds as I rocked my body backward, taking everything he was giving and wanting more.

Dean pulled his fingers free and turned me around. “Lean back against the sink, thighs wide.”

The stern set of his mouth and the harsh commands all coupled with the impromptu punishment and finger-fucking made me mindless with lust. I wanted to grab him, undo his belt and beg him to fuck me, but the tea towel prevented me. Instead, I struck the pose he required and waited, chewing my lower lip to keep myself quiet.

He closed the distance between us and kissed me roughly. “You know what I have to do, don’t you?”

I shook my head, but I knew. And it filled me with a touch of dread and a great deal of arousal.

“You know—just a few. You’ll be fine. In fact, you’ll love it.”

Dean slapped my pussy with the mop. The small, silicone head kissed my clit with a spark of fire. I moaned.

He did it again. And again. I counted eight total until I was sagging against the lip of the sink. My head was tossed back, my eyes half-closed and my hair a mess.

“Please, Dean,” I whispered. “Please just…something.”

He grinned wickedly and sank to his knees. “I’ll make it better,” he said. “Because you behaved.”

His mouth was soft and giving, and when he lapped at my clitoris, I shuddered. He sucked and soothed, licked and nudged, over and over until sweetness filled me and I hummed softly with mindless joy.

He grabbed my wrists and tugged me down before removing the towel. Dean maneuvered me so that my hips were straddling his head and my face hovered over his crotch. I took his cue and shoved his shorts down and then his boxers. I took his cock in my mouth as his fingers skimmed the tender skin of my ass. He pushed on a particularly hot spot, and I gasped. He shoved a moist finger in my ass as his mouth returned to my slit. His tongue did its thing so beautifully that I arched up mindlessly to intensify the contact.

I sucked down to the root of him, grinding my cunt against his face and loving the strokes of his fingers over my tortured bottom. The digit in my ass drove deeper, and I knew I’d come soon.

I dragged my tongue along the rim of his cockhead before teasing the slit in the top. Precome coated my taste buds, a subtle flavor that always made me smile. I ran my open lips down the sides of his cock and worked his shaft with my hand as he continued to eat me.

He drove his tongue against my wet sex and then licked my pounding clitoris again. He delivered a single slap to my asscheek, inflaming the already sensitive skin, and I came. My body went rigid, the air leaving my lungs. I was frozen in time for an instant as I trembled above him, his big arms hooked around my thighs to hold me steady.

I went back to sucking him off, and he resumed his work on my slit. “No,” I mumbled. “Too much.”

“Not so,” he answered, thrusting up from beneath me and filling my throat. I sucked his cock, tasting the salt-and-cotton flavor of him. I moaned, and the rumble of my voice made him grow still for an instant as he focused on the pleasure.

I put all my efforts into making him come, and when the inevitable conclusion began, he was back at my clit, delivering hard, smooth circles with his tongue.

I inhaled before getting my mouth all the way down his shaft. My lips brushed his pubic hair, and the feel of him filling my throat was sublime. Dean came hard, his cream flooding my mouth. Then he nipped my clitoris and I came again, carried away by the intensity and the surprise of my orgasm.

I rolled off him and picked up the discarded basting mop. I studied it for a moment.

He leaned on his elbow, watching me, and asked, “Well? Verdict?” The commands and stern face were gone. The dominant man telling me what to do was once again my smiling, joking husband.

“We can keep it.”

He laughed. “Excellent. You know it’s cool. I just proved it.”