a difficult meal

Dinner is hard in more ways than one.

You sit at the table with a bowl of ramen you actually finished cooking and a grown woman on your lap who has decided chairs are optional. Sandra is naked under the borrowed shirt, and the shirt is doing nothing. She never stops grinding—slow, absent, relentless—her still-tender ass rolling over your solid clothed cock like the meal is only the cover story. Every shift makes you inhale through your teeth. Every time you try to adjust her, she settles heavier, pleased with herself.

Then she insists on the feeding.

Not as a one-time joke. As a system. She wants you to feed her. She also wants to feed you. Ramen is a terrible medium for this. Broth sloshes. Noodles hang. Chili oil finds skin it should not find. You lift a bite toward your own mouth and she perches like a bottomless baby bird, lips parted, eyes expectant, until you surrender the chopsticks and watch your dinner disappear into her instead.

“Hey that was mine.”

“You have more.”

“It tastes better from your bowl.”

“I know.”

Having a grown-ass woman on your lap while you try to use both arms is not easy. It is even less easy when the woman is gremlin-supercharged and treating disruption as a sport. She leans when you reach for the napkin. She steals the spoon. She bumps the bowl with her hip on purpose and then looks innocent about the splash on your wrist. Your size advantage got you through the stove war. It does less for you at the table, where both hands are occupied and she has the high ground of being already attached.

The biting starts again as soon as your forearm comes close.

Faint marks bloom along your arms—not the neck claim from earlier, smaller strikes, opportunistic nips whenever your flesh enters range. She treats your skin like it might be the real meal. You hiss, laugh, try to keep the next mouthful intact, and she just finds a new patch of forearm and bites that too, grinning around her teeth.

“Are you imitating Jeff now?”
you ask.

That is a mistake.

The land shark comparison delights her far too much. The biting becomes more frequent and louder—play-growls included, little chomps timed to your attempts to eat, as if you have given her a character brief and she is committed to the bit. She even does the squat, unblinking stare over the rim of the bowl before she strikes. Broth drips down your wrist. A noodle slaps against her collarbone and she does not care. Your cock stays painfully hard under the grind of her ass and there is nothing you can do about it with chopsticks in one hand and a gremlin in the other.

“Sandra. Eat the ramen. Not me.”

“You taste better.”

“That is not true and also disgusting.”

She bites your bicep in answer and then immediately opens her mouth again for the next bite of actual food, baby-bird posture restored like she did not just try to consume your arm. You feed her because the alternative is wearing the bowl. You steal a mouthful when she is busy chewing. She notices and retaliates with two quick nips to your wrist and a heavier grind that makes your vision flicker.

By now she has fully turned to face your chest.

Her legs hook around the back of the chair, arms looped behind it too, locking you in. The grinding has slowed into something less chaotic and more focused: her mouth on your throat, working a necklace of hickeys like she is designing a tattoo. She is methodical about it. One mark, then a small shift, then another, darkening a line along the side of your neck with the patience of someone who has decided you will not wear a collar in public tomorrow. It buys you a few quiet minutes. You can actually eat what is left in the bowl. Broth. The last noodles. A piece of egg she has not stolen. Her hair tickles your jaw. Her breath is warm against the wet spots she keeps leaving.

You set the bowl down.

Her head snaps up at the sound.

She stares at you from below, chin almost on your sternum, eyes huge and expectant. If she had a tail it would be wagging without pause—the whole of her coiled and waiting, marks shining on your neck, ass still faintly throbbing in your lap.

“Are you finally done?”
she asks, as if you took an hour on purpose.
“Can I finally have sex now?”

No preamble. No joke to soften it. Just the gremlin, finished with dinner, asking for the thing you promised after the bowls were empty.

You have to carry her upstairs.

The leglock never comes off. The second you stand she tightens, ankles crossed behind the chair’s ghost, then behind you, a living backpack with opinions. You make one last attempt at the table—bowls, chopsticks, the chili-oil crime scene that will be worse tomorrow if it dries—and she makes a noise so close to a growl that you understand you have hit the end of the possible negotiation limit. Dinner is over. The deal is live. Cleaning can wait for a man who does not have a horny gremlin welded to his torso.

She wants to be kissed the entire walk.

That part is dangerous. Her gorgeous, heated face fills your whole vision, mouth seeking yours on every step, and the stairs become a problem of depth perception. You take them by memory and the feel of the banister under one hand. The other arm is under her ass, supporting the still-tender weight she refuses to put down. She kisses like she is starving. You kiss back in fragments—doorframe, landing, the dark of the hall—fond and a little stunned by this new side of her. It is difficult to handle. It is also, unmistakably, your job and your privilege. The girl who used to hide her want behind jokes is hanging off you like the want is allowed to have a body now, and you are the one who gets to carry it.

The bedroom doorway is as far as the leglock lasts.

She jumps off without warning and immediately starts bouncing around the room like a red-assed baboon—literally, the spanked colour still sitting on her, shirt riding up as she hops from the rug to the far side of the bed and back, grinning, wanting to be caught. Wanting to be pinned. The invitation is physical and stupid and bright.

The struggle is fun.

It is also not easy. She is quick, slippery, still the sporty one, and the leftover gremlin charge makes her unpredictable. You grab; she twists. You hook an arm; she ducks under it and slaps the mattress like a dare. You almost have her on the edge of the bed and she rolls, laughing, hair in her face, one foot pushing off your thigh. Your reach range helps. Her determination makes it a contest instead of a collection. When you finally get her down it is with your weight across her hips and both of her wrists in one hand against the sheets, her legs still kicking once for form before they fall open.

She stares up at you, delightfully smiling, completely aroused, and mouths the words without sound.

FUCK ME.

No shame. No joke. Just the shape of it on her lips while she waits to see if you will.