Kitchen? Check.

“You know,” Heather says, “I should probably get up. You need something more for dinner than pussy, after all.” She flashes me a sly grin.

“No need to trouble yourself,” I tell her. “We can just order pizza or something.”

“No, I want to make you dinner,” she insists. “I like to cook, especially to feed my man. I love to bake, too; I enjoyed making all that stuff for the party. It’s very satisfying to me, feeding people. It’s a way of taking care of them that everyone appreciates and that makes the day better.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say, feeling surprised and more than a little sheepish.

Heather strokes my hair and smiles tenderly. “Don’t feel bad, love—I didn’t either, until I went off to Metternich. When I realized how much I missed you, it became my way of dealing with anxiety. A couple of the girls in the dorm got me into it—we had a little kitchen support group.” She rolls away from me and gets up. “I should really put something on, if only because of the windows,” she muses. She opens a drawer in her dresser and pulls out a long T-shirt; when she puts it on, it comes down to her thighs. “That works,” she says, flashing me a grin.

*******

After a few minutes, I get up myself, pull on my boxers, and head downstairs. I walk into the kitchen to find Heather bent over the island looking intently at something. In that position, the shirt isn’t covering much from behind—in point of fact, I can see her pussy glistening. I can’t resist; I drop my boxers, walk up behind her, flip up the hem of the shirt, and drive my dick through the gates of her sex before she’s even quite registered that I’m there.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” Heather yowls, her spine arching taut, her head coming up and back. She even pushes off from the counter just a little; I seize the opportunity and pull her shirt up so I can get my hands under it and grab her tits. I massage her springy titflesh and pinch her nipples between my fingers; using her boobs as my anchors, I start pumping her well with my shaft. She gasps and wriggles and flexes her ass, fucking me back. “Fuck, baby,” she moans, “I’m—ooooooooh—trying to—fuuuuuuuck, that’s goood—trying to make—mmmmmmm, yeah, squeeze my titties, just like that—make—yeah, just like that, play with my nipples, twist them just like that—fuuuuuck—trying to—ohhhhh, more, love, fuck me harder, fuck that little pussy hard with that big beautiful mommy-maker—make you dinner—trying to—ohhhhhh, I love your big thick cock—so good stretching my tight little pussy—give it to me—give it to me hard—feed you . . .”

“I’m serious, love,” I tell her huskily, “every room in the house. Right now I’m hungry for you.”

“Aaaaaahhhhh, ohhhhhhh, that’s fucking hot,” Heather breathes. “You want me that much? You like that hot pussy squeezing your big fuckpiston? Tell me how much you want me, baby. Tell me how horny I make you.”

“Fuck, baby,” I moan—how do I answer a question that big? I start fucking her harder to give myself a little time to think; she mewls and closes her eyes. “You’re hotter in an old sweatshirt and ratty jeans than anyone in Hollywood is in PhotoShop.” Heather moans in pleasure at my words. “Every time I see you, my fingers tingle. Seven years daydreaming of kissing you, feeling the touch of your tongue and your lips on mine—of seeing your tits, running my hands over them, kissing them, pinching and sucking your nipples—of tasting your pussy, fingering you, teasing your clit—of—of this, feeling my cock inside you, fucking you slow and sweet, hard and fast, on top looking down at you, from behind, with you on top, your perfect tits in my face, your beautiful hair falling all around my head—of hearing you tell me you love me, and seeing it shining in your eyes . . .” I’m losing control, pounding her hard enough now that a little voice in the back of my mind is worried about leaving bruises on her legs from the counter; but I can’t stop. Heather’s moaning constantly now, and tears are tracing their courses down her cheeks.

“You can get me hard just walking into a room, or talking about the weather,” I tell her. “I can’t be near you without wanting to taste your lips, your neck, your tits, your pussy—to feel the soft weight of your tits in my hands, the wet heat of your pussy on my fingers—to push my cock inside you, to make you moan, to hear you scream my name . . .” Heather is breathing heavily now. “Seven years, every time you were around, I had to try to stuff that down, turn it off, push it aside so I could function—and I never could. That’s how much I want you—that’s how horny you make me. I want all of you—all of you for all of me—now and always—that’s how much . . .” I run out of words; I roll her boobs in my hands, tweak her nipples, and keep pounding her with my cock.

“Fuck, lover,” Heather breathes. “You’re so good to me—so—fucking—good—” Her voice breaks; she stiffens up and shrieks like an enraged falcon as her orgasm blasts through her like a hurricane. I cum with her, my climax erupting like Vesuvius, spraying gouts of cum into her hot, wet depths and setting fire to my nerves. I hold on to her for dear life, feeling precarious as ecstasy overwhelms us both.

Heather lays with her head on the counter, weeping quietly, while I hold her. When the tears ease, she stands up, turns around, and buries her head in my neck. I stroke her hair and murmur my love into her ear. She hiccups, then says, “I never knew—I never thought to look—I wasted so much time . . . I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry I was so foolish . . .”

“Ssssh, ssssh, love, it’s OK, it’s OK,” I tell her soothingly. “It got us here and now, and I don’t feel any need for anything better.” I nuzzle her hair. “And if it means you have a boyfriend who you can turn on without even trying, well, just imagine the opportunities for you if you do try!”

Heather lifts her head and looks at me in disbelief, then starts laughing. She lays her head on my shoulder and laughs long and hard, and in the laughter I can hear her soul ease. This is my beloved.