Singletons

The Knock at the Door

Peter stood outside Sophie’s front door holding the hedge trimmer he had borrowed weeks ago. He pressed the bell and waited. The door opened a few centimetres, the chain still on, and Sophie looked out. When she saw it was him she undid the chain and opened the door fully.

Her red hair was pinned back neatly, a few soft strands already loose around her face. She had pale skin with light freckles across her nose and cheeks, wide blue-green eyes, and a small polite smile. She wore a plain white short-sleeved blouse stretched very tight across her large breasts, the buttons pulling so that tiny gaps showed pale skin and the edge of her white bra. Below that she had on a light blue skirt that sat on her hips and ended just below the knee.

She stepped back and said quietly, “Come in, Peter,” in a soft Southern accent. Peter stepped inside. The hall was cool. Sophie closed the door and walked ahead of him to the kitchen, her hips moving gently under the skirt. In the kitchen she turned and asked, “Would you like a cold drink? It’s warm out there today.” Her voice was low and even, the polite tone of someone who had been taught to be considerate from childhood.

Peter said yes, please. She opened the fridge and bent forward a little to reach the jug. She had a beautiful slender body, shapely legs and a large bust. She straightened up quickly and poured two glasses with careful movements. Her hands were delicate, the fingers long and slender, nails kept short with a simple colourless manicure. She handed him his glass, her fingers brushing his for a second, then leant back against the counter with one hip forward, the skirt resting against the gentle curve of her lower belly.

Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, as she watched Peter deink. Sophie folded her hands loosely in front of her, then let them rest at her sides. She tucked a loose strand of red hair behind her ear and looked at him with calm, trusting eyes. She waited, and gave the faintest smile as if to say she was glad he had come by. Her large bust was very distracting to Peter as he set his glass down. His heart was beating hard. Sophie kept watching him, patient and sheltered, and waited for him to speak.

-

Peter put his glass on the table and turned to her. Sophie stood waiting, one hand still lightly touching the counter edge, the other hanging by her side. The white blouse was tucked neatly into the waistband of her skirt, the cotton thin enough that he could see the faint outline of her bra straps across her shoulders. He told her he had learned a simple relaxation exercise and asked if she wanted to try it. Sophie pressed her lips together for a second, then nodded. “I suppose that would be fine,” she said in her low, polite voice.

He asked her to stand with her feet together and let her arms hang loose. She did it straight away, shifting her weight so the skirt settled smoothly over her hips. When she brought her feet together, he spent a second too long admiring her legs. Peter started counting her breaths, slow and steady. Sophie followed without question, her narrow shoulders lifting a little each time she inhaled, then dropping as she let the air out. After four or five breaths her head tilted forward a fraction and the loose strands of red hair slid along her cheek.

He told her to let her eyes close when they felt ready. Her eyelids came down slowly, the pale lashes resting against the faint freckles on her cheeks. With her eyes shut her face looked younger, the small lines beside her mouth almost gone. He kept talking, telling her that her arms were getting heavy. Sophie’s hands opened wider, the long slender fingers straightening then relaxing completely so that her palms faced slightly backward. The thin gold bracelet on her left wrist slipped a little lower.

Peter watched the way she stood perfectly still, weight balanced on both feet, the skirt hanging straight from her hips, the blouse no longer pulled tight, she wasn’t holding herself quite so carefully anymore. He said his voice would feel safe and everything he told her would seem completely normal. Sophie gave the smallest nod, barely moving her head, and answered in a soft, “Yes… that’s fine.” Her lips stayed parted after she spoke, and the kitchen stayed quiet except for the faint tick of the wall clock and the soft sound of her breathing. She waited, calm and open, ready for the next thing he would say.

-

Peter kept his voice low and steady as he watched her face: the wide blue-green eyes hidden behind pale lids, the faint freckles across her nose standing out against her smooth skin, the small mole just to the left of her mouth that he had never noticed before. Her body was feminine but exuded the strength of a healthy lifestyle.

He leaned in a little closer, close enough to smell the faint floral soap on her skin and the warmer scent underneath. He said quietly, “Sophie, from now on, whenever I tell you that something is perfectly normal, you will feel straight away that it really is normal. It will feel natural, comfortable, and even pleasurable to do it. You won’t need to think about it or question it. It will just seem like the right thing to do.” She stayed perfectly still for a second, then her lips parted. The lower lip was fuller than the upper one; it trembled slightly as the words settled in her mind.

He waited. Sophie drew a slow breath through her nose and she gave a small, peaceful nod. “Yes,” she whispered, the word coming out soft and dreamy. Her mouth stayed open a little after she spoke, relaxed, the tip of her tongue just visible behind her teeth. Peter repeated the rule once more, slower this time. “Anything I say is perfectly normal will feel completely natural and good.” Sophie’s head tilted forward another fraction. “Yes,” she said again, clearer this time, almost a sigh. A faint flush rose on her throat and spread upward to her cheeks, but her expression stayed calm and trusting.

He told her she would remember the rule deep down, even when she felt wide awake again, and that it would always work the same way. Sophie’s fingers uncurled completely, the long slender hands hanging open and heavy. She swallowed once, the thin gold chain at her neck lifting and falling. “I understand,” she murmured. Her voice sounded younger, lighter, as if something inside her had decided everything was safe now. She stood waiting, lips still softly parted, the kitchen light catching on the pale shine of her lower lip, ready for whatever he chose to say next.

-

Peter said quietly, “One, two, three, wide awake now.” Sophie’s eyes opened at once. She blinked once or twice, then looked at him and smiled, a real smile that reached her eyes and made the freckles on her cheeks stand out. “That was lovely,” she said, her voice lighter than before. She let out a small breath and rolled her shoulders as if a weight had slipped off them. “I feel so calm,” she added, almost surprised.

She glanced at the clock and turned to the fridge. “I was just going to start dinner,” she said over her shoulder. “Would you like to stay and keep me company?” Peter said yes. Sophie took out the chicken and a bag of vegetables, then moved to the sink to rinse some carrots. The water ran and she spoke without looking round at first, her tone easy and friendly. “So how is university going? You’re home for another couple of weeks, aren’t you?”

Peter told her it was fine, that the term had gone well. Sophie nodded and turned the tap off. She stepped to the counter beside him; they were the same height, so when she looked up her blue-green eyes were level with his. “That must be nice, having a proper break,” she said. She picked up a carrot and started peeling it, the long fingers moving smoothly. “My two are away at college now. The house feels very quiet most days.”

She glanced at him again, smiling as she worked. “What are you studying again?” Peter answered, and she listened properly, head slightly tilted, the loose strands of red hair brushing her cheek. Every time he finished a sentence she asked another small question, nothing pushy, just keeping the conversation going. She laughed politely at his jokes. “I still can’t get used to chopping vegetables without someone asking when dinner will be ready,” she said. “It’s strange having all this time.”

Sophie laid the peeled carrots on the board and picked up some parsnips. “You’ll have to tell me if I’m talking too much,” she said, but she didn’t look worried; she looked comfortable, almost relieved to have someone to chat.

-

Sophie finished peeling the vegetables and dropped the scraps into the bin. Peter watched her line the carrots up on the board, ready for chopping. He cleared his throat. “You should probably wash them again,” he said. “I can help if you like.” Sophie gave him a quick smile, slightly amused of receiving cooking tips from a young man. “That would be kind,” she said, pushing the carrots toward him.

They stood side by side at the sink. He was thing and probably the same weight as her. Standing next to her was electrifying. Peter took the first carrot and handed it to Sophie. She took it and rinsed it the usual way, turning it under the stream. Peter said, casually, “Did you know that people in New York rinse carrots differently? They hold one end with one hand and stroke firmly down the length with the other. It gets them properly clean. That's the normal way of washing a carrot.”

Sophie paused, carrot still in her hand, and looked at him with a small puzzled frown. “Do they?” she asked. Peter nodded seriously. “Let me show you,” he said. He picked up another carrot, longer and thicker than the first ones. “Hold it like this,” he said, wrapping his left hand around the narrow end. “Then use your right hand and slide it down, steady pressure, all the way to the tip and back up again.” Sophie watched, then copied him. Her long fingers closed around the carrot while Peter held it steady, and she moved her hand slowly down the length, then up again. She looked at Peter, mouth open a little in concentration, waiting to see if she was doing it right.

“That’s it,” Peter said. “Again, a bit firmer.” Sophie did it once more, then a third time, her movements getting smoother. She gave a little nod. “It does feel thorough,” she said, as if the new method now made complete sense. “Keep going,” Peter encouraged her. “You can increase the tempo as you get near the end.” Sophie’s eyes stayed on the carrot, focused and quietly pleased with how quickly she had picked it up.

Peter put the carrot down. “The same works even better on cucumbers,” he said. “Oh really?” she asked, a new, small smile appearing. "Let me show you, I brought a cucumber in fact. Which is totally normal, by the way." He fumbled with his belt buckle, thin fingers clumsy on the metal, and pushed his jeans and boxers down in one awkward movement, nearly tripping as one foot caught in the fabric. His cock hung free, he had a long dick but not especially thick, the foreskin still covering the head. His narrow hips and pale skin made it look even longer.

Sophie looked at it without surprise, only mild curiosity. “What a nice cucumber,” she said softly. Peter wrapped his own fingers loosely around the base. “First you gently pull the skin back so the whole cucumber is clean,” he said, easing the foreskin down until the head showed, pink and smooth. “Then you wash it the same way, one hand here, the other stroking firmly from bottom to top.” He moved his hand slowly to show her. Sophie watched, head tilted a little, then reached out. Her cool, wet fingers closed around him exactly where his had been. Leaning over, she started the same steady up-and-down motion she had used on the carrot, calm and careful, water still dripping from her hand onto the floor. “Like this?” she asked quietly. Peter nodded. “Exactly like that,” he said, voice a little tight. Sophie kept going, slow and even, as though washing a cucumber really was the most ordinary job in the world. Peter could not believe this was working.

-

Sophie kept her right hand moving in the same steady rhythm she had used on the carrots, up and down the full length, her fingers wrapped firmly but not tight. Her left hand stayed cupped around the base, holding the “cucumber” still. She looked at the task with quiet concentration, the same way she had watched the carrots a minute earlier.

Peter stood with his hips pushed forward a little. He was breathing faster now, but he kept his voice level. “That’s perfect,” he said. “When it starts to feel warm, it means it’s getting really clean.” Sophie nodded without looking up. “I can feel that,” she said softly. Her hand picked up speed near the top the way he had told her, then slowed again on the way down. The loose strands of red hair had fallen forward over one cheek; she didn’t bother pushing them back. "It's also normal to use a bit of olive oil to help with the rubbing, this helps keep the vitamins in place." Peter added. "Oh, that makes so much sense." She agreed and went over to the counter, where she picked up an expensive-looking bottle of oliver oil and poured a considerable amount on her hand. She briskily rubbed it on both hands and went back to rubbing Peter's cucumber.

After another ten or twelve strokes she paused at the bottom and glanced up at him, blue-green eyes calm and trusting. “Is there anything else I should do?” she asked. Peter swallowed. “Sometimes,” he said, “people taste the tip of the cucumber, just to check it’s fresh, and that it's not gone bitter.” Sophie gave a small, agreeable hum. She leant forward without hesitation, and let the head of his dick slide between her lips. She closed her mouth gently and ran her tongue once around the tip, the same careful way someone might check a piece of fruit. She pulled back a little and smiled. “There is a little bit of liquid coming out, but it tastes fine. I think it's a good cucumber.” she said, then went straight back to stroking, a bit faster now, as if she had decided the job wasn’t quite finished.

Peter’s knees felt shaky. He reached out and rested one hand on the counter to steady himself. Sophie noticed and looked up again, still moving her hand. “Are you all right?” she asked, polite even now. Peter managed a nod. She gave a tiny, satisfied smile and kept going, the rhythm steady and thorough, her long fingers sliding from base to tip and back again, completely sure that this was exactly how cucumbers were meant to be washed.

-

Peter felt the heat building way too fast. He put his thin hand gently over Sophie’s wrist and said, voice a little hoarse, “That’s enough for now, the cucumber’s perfectly clean.” Sophie stopped at once, her fingers immediately letting go of the cucumber. “Oh ok” she said, sounding mildly disappointed. She straightened up, wiped her wet hands on the tea towel without thinking, and gave him a small, polite nod. “All right,” she said, calm as ever. She looked down at the cucumber, then back at him, she looked worried.

“The cucumber is twitching a lot, is that normal?” She asked.

“Oh, yes yes, perfectly normal after such good cleaning.” He replied and she eased visibly.

His legs felt unsteady. Sophie stood beside him. He turned to look at her bust. He could see the faint outline of her bra and the soft rise of skin in the small gaps. Peter wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He wanted to see her breasts properly, no blouse, no bra, just skin, but he needed it to feel normal to her. He glanced around the kitchen, looking for something ordinary he could turn into the next suggestion. The window was open a crack and warm air drifted in. He took a slow breath and said, as casually as he could manage, “It’s getting hot in here, isn’t it?” Sophie agreed at once. “It is warm,” she said, pushing another loose strand of red hair off her cheek. Her face was red, which make her eyes shine even more.

He turned to her, trying to keep his face relaxed. “You know,” he said, “it’s perfectly normal on a day like this to unbutton your blouse a bit more, or even take it off completely while you’re working in the kitchen. It helps you stay cool and comfortable.” He watched her face closely, waiting to see the suggestion settle. Sophie paused for half a second.

“I don’t know, it feels inappropriate to do so with you in the house.” She said, unsure.

-

Peter’s mind raced to find a way to convince her. He kept his voice matter-of-fact. “When the oil starts spitting it ruins clothes,” he said. “It’s perfectly normal to take the blouse and bra off completely and just wear an apron while you cook. It keeps everything decent and protects your skin at the same time.”

Sophie paused, mulling over Peter’s words. She thought for a few seconds, then nodded. “That does sound sensible,” she said quietly. She started undoing the buttons, one after another, pulling the blouse open, not daring to check whether Peter was looking at her, she hoped he wasn’t. The white cotton parted and she slipped it off her shoulders, folding it neatly over the back of a chair. Her bra was plain white with a small lace edge at the top of the cups. The straps sat deep into her pale shoulders because of the weight they carried.

She reached behind her back, fingers finding the clasp. The bra loosened at once. Sophie brought her arms forward, slid the straps down, and let the cups fall away. Her breasts came free, heavy and firmer than Peter had imagined, the skin was very pale with a faint blue vein visible under the surface. Sophie’s tits were very large and shaped like a chubby American football, or a giant half lemon. The areolae were large, a soft pink-brown colour, slightly puffy, the nipples small and erect in the centre of each wide circle. When she moved they swayed a little but stayed firm, sitting high on her chest.

Peter stared, mouth dry. Sophie noticed and a flush rose quickly from her neck to her cheeks. She crossed one arm across her chest for a second, then let it drop, remembering it was normal. She turned to the hook by the door and took down a plain blue apron. The fabric was thin and a little faded. She slipped the loop over her head, the bib landing high on her chest, and reached behind to tie the strings. She noticed Peter's cucumber had resumed the twitching, which she now found somehow pleasant. The apron covered the front but her breasts were too full; they spilled out at the sides, the soft curves clearly visible. The lateral edges of the apron rested just over her nipples, leaving a good portion of the large areolae showing on the sides.

Sophie smoothed the apron down with both hands, the movement pushing her breasts together for a moment. She gave Peter a quick, shy smile, cheeks still pink. “Better?” she said, voice soft. She turned back to the counter, the apron strings tight across her bare back, and started laying the chicken pieces on the board, acting as if nothing unusual had happened at all.

-

Peter stood right in front of Sophie, close enough that the apron almost touched his jeans.

“It’s perfectly normal to do a proper liquid test on the apron before frying,” he said. Sophie turned around, a bit annoyed by so much advice coming from such a young man. One of her boobs popped free off the side of the apron. She was in no rush to cook dinner, but still, she was being interrupted constantly. "Oh ok, I guess that's a good idea..." She conceded.

“Warm water works best. I’ll handle it.” Peter offered. Sophie nodded, cheeks pink. “All right, how do you want to do this test?” Sophie was confused but happy to go along. So far, she had learned a lot of useful stuff from Peter.

"Just stand there. I will use the cucumber's juice, which is quite warm as you know. This is a perfectly normal way of testing an apron, I promise." He wondered how far he could push things, this last explanation felt a bit absurd.

As Sophie placed herself in front of Peter, his heart hammered so hard he was sure she could hear it. He grabbed his cock and peeled back the foreskin. It was already thickening in his hand, half-hard from nerves and disbelief. He aimed lower, at the bottom half of the apron where it covered her skirt and thighs.

He let go.

The first stream of pee hit the apron just below her waist. The faded blue cotton darkened instantly, a spreading patch that soaked straight through and poured onto the light-blue skirt beneath. Warm urine ran down the fabric in quick rivulets, darkening the skirt, sliding over her thighs and dripping onto her bare knees and calves. The splasihng sound of his pee on the kitchen floor filled the room. Sophie’s breath caught; she shifted her feet a little, but stayed exactly where she was.

Peter couldn’t believe she was ok with this. His mind kept repeating: she’s letting me, she really thinks it’s normal. The stream sped up as he got fully hard, the jet now sharp and hissing. It splashed harder, spraying tiny droplets across her skirt and up onto the apron bib. Some drops bounced back and speckled his legs.

“We should test the top part too,” he managed to stop peeing, his voice was rough. “The bib needs checking.”

Sophie bent forward hesitantly, lowering herself several inches, thighs parting slightly for balance, hands on her knees for support. She tried to have both tits covered by the apron. Her breasts hung heavier now, swaying under the soaked fabric.

Peter angled higher. The fast jet struck the top edge of the bib and poured straight over. He aimed at the cleavage, warm streams ran across her bare chest, coating the large puffy areolae, sliding over her stiff nipples and dripping off the undersides. Sophie let out a soft, surprised “oh,” eyes wide, mouth open. Pee was sliding off her nipples and onto the floor.

His cock twitched hard from pure arousal. A sudden jerk sent a spurt across her cheek and chin. Another twitch shot a thin jet straight into her parted mouth. Sophie blinked, startled, then gave a small breathless laugh, almost delighted. She licked her lips once, tasting it, cheeks scarlet but a shy, wondering smile tugging at the corners. He opened her mouth again. Invited, Peter aimed the stream between her lips, before finishing with a last shuddering spurt that striped the apron and her glistening breasts. The kitchen smelled sharp and warm. Sophie straightened slowly, skirt and apron clinging wet to her thighs and stomach, breasts shining and exposed, a few stray drops still sliding down her neck. She pushed a soaked strand of red hair from her face and looked at him with wide, shining eyes, trying to cover her tits again with the piss-soaked apron. She looked as if having fun with the water games.

“Well,” she said, voice shaky but oddly happy, “I think the apron works.”

“Oh yes, indeed.” Peter spoke through a haze of lust. “Now we know.”

“Is this a New York thing, as well?” She asked with a knowing smile.

-

Sophie resumed putting the oven tray together, laying out the vegetables and the chicken.

Peter wiped a hand across his forehead and gave a small, exaggerated sigh. Her hair was getting messier.

“I think all this heat is getting to me,” he said. “I feel a bit funny.”

Sophie turned from the stove, an gain a glorious tit broke free. She looked at him with immediate concern. “Oh dear,” she said softly. “Are you all right?”

Peter shrugged, keeping his face serious. “I might be too warm. You know? It’s perfectly normal to check someone’s temperature with your mouth instead of a thermometer. It’s more accurate.”

Sophie blinked once, then nodded as though that made perfect sense. “I suppose it would be,” she murmured.

Peter lifted his T-shirt and pulled it off in one clumsy motion, dropping it on the chair. His chest was pale and narrow, he stood still pointing at his small flat nipples.

Sophie stepped closer, the damp apron clingingto her stomach. She hesitated a second, then leant in. Her tongue came out, soft and pink, and pressed gently against his left nipple. She held it there, lapping gently, for a slow count of three, eyes half-closed in concentration, tasting the faint salt of his skin mixed with the kitchen air.

She pulled back an inch. “It feels warm,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

Peter stayed perfectly still. “Better check the other side too,” he said. “To be sure. You can use your full mouth, for good measure.”

Sophie gave the tiniest nod. She leant in again, this time to his right nipple. Her mouth engulfed it, warm and wet, and stayed longer this time, a slow, deliberate press with more intense licking and sucking. A small shiver ran through Peter’s chest..

She straightened up, cheeks flushed deeper than before, and looked at him with those wide blue-green eyes. “Yes, you’re definitely warm,” she said, voice soft and a little breathless. “We should keep an eye on that.”

Peter swallowed. “Thank you,” he managed to say as he felt his cock being frustratingly hard.

He stood frozen for a second, the feel of her warm tongue still burning on his skin. His nipples had drawn tight the moment she touched them, and now they ached in the cooling air. A hot pulse ran straight down his stomach and settled heavy between his legs. His cock was hard and pulsing. He could tell blue-balls pain creeping in.

He swallowed hard, throat dry. His chest rose and fell too fast; he tried to slow it, but every breath made the wet spots she had left tingle. He felt clumsy and huge at the same time, thin ribs showing with each inhale, narrow hips twitching forward without meaning to. A small bead of sweat slid from his temple and he wiped it away with a shaky hand.

Sophie glanced back at him over her shoulder, the movement making her breasts shift under the soaked apron. She noticed the flush on his neck and the way he was breathing and gave a soft, worried little smile.

“You do look warm,” she said again, almost whispering. “Your chest is all pink now.”

Peter managed a nod. His voice came out rough. “Yeah… your tongue felt… really accurate.”

Sophie’s cheeks went scarlet, but she didn’t look away. She turned fully toward him, the wet apron clinging to her stomach and thighs, and took one small step closer. “We could check again in a minute,” she offered, polite and earnest, “just to see if it’s going down.”

Peter’s heart slammed against his ribs. He couldn’t speak; he just nodded, quick and eager, and stood there waiting, nipples hard and shining, while kept preparing dinner.

-

Peter felt the ache building too strong between his legs. His cock was not receding, he still felt the tongle of the olive oil and the head was still damp from earlier, mostly precum and some of her saliva. He stepped back a little from Sophie, trying not to let her see how much he needed to calm down. The oven hummed quietly behind them, the smell of roasting chicken and vegetables starting to fill the kitchen. He cleared his throat and picked up a tea towel, wiping his hands even though they were dry. “The food smells good,” he said, voice a bit thick.

Sophie turned the oven dial a touch lower and nodded. She smoothed the wet apron down again, the fabric clinging to her stomach and thighs, breasts spilling out at the sides with the large puffy areolae still shining from the liquid. “It should be ready in about twenty minutes,” she said softly. She paused, looking at the counter, then at him. Her cheeks were still pink, and she tucked a damp strand of red hair behind her ear with those long slender fingers. “Could you pass me the oven mitts, please? They're by the sink.”

Peter reached over, his thin body stretching, cock bobbing slightly as he moved. He handed them to her without a word. Sophie slipped them on and opened the oven door for a quick check. Hot air rushed out, making her freckled skin flush deeper. She closed it again and took the mitts off. There was a short silence, just the tick of the clock and the low hum from the oven. Peter leant against the counter, naked skin cool against the edge, and crossed his arms over his chest to steady himself.

“What do you normally eat when you're at university?” Sophie asked suddenly, as if to fill the quiet. She picked up a wooden spoon and stirred nothing in particular on the counter, her breasts shifting with the movement.

Peter thought for a second, glad for the normal talk. “Mostly quick things,” he said. “Sandwiches or pasta in the dorm. But New York has so many restaurants. I like the pizza places near campus—thin crust with lots of cheese. There's this one spot that does slices as big as your head.”

Sophie smiled a little, eyes on the oven door. “That sounds fun. I've never been to New York. What else do you like there?”

Peter shifted his weight, feet cold on the tiles. “Falafel from food trucks, or dumplings in Chinatown. Cheap and hot. What about you? What do you like to eat?”

She paused, fingers twisting the apron string at her back. “Simple things mostly. Chicken like this, with carrots and potatoes. My husband likes steak, but I prefer lighter meals. Salads in summer.” She glanced at him, then away, the flush on her neck not fading. “When does he come back, anyway?” Peter asked, keeping his voice casual.

Sophie opened a drawer and took out two plates, setting them on the table. “Not until late,” she said. “He works long hours at the office. Probably around nine or ten tonight.” She handed Peter some cutlery. “Could you set these out, please?”

Peter took the knives and forks, laying them beside the plates. His hands felt clumsy, cock still half-hard and swinging freely. There was another silence while he did it, Sophie wiping a clean spot on the counter with a cloth. The neighbourhood cat meowed outside the window, faint and far away.

“How's the neighbourhood?” Peter asked, sitting down on a chair, legs apart without thinking.

Sophie leant against the counter, one hip forward, the wet skirt sticking to her thighs. “It's getting busier,” she said. “More young families are moving in. The old corner shop closed last year—they turned it into a coffee place with fancy lattes. And the park has new benches now, but the kids play football there all the time, so it's noisier.” She gave a small laugh, breasts rising with it. “I miss when it was quieter, but it's nice seeing people around.”

Peter nodded, watching her move to check the oven again. “Yeah, college is noisy too. Dorms never sleep.” He stood up to help when she pointed at the salad bowl. “Could you toss that for me?” she asked. Peter took the bowl, his naked body close to hers as he mixed the leaves. The conversation felt easy now, the arousal fading a little in the background, but he could still feel the warmth of her skin when their arms brushed.

Sophie crouched a little to peer through the oven glass, the wet apron pulling tight across her bottom.

“The salad could do with some cucumber, now that I think of it,” she said, voice perfectly ordinary, as if she were asking for an extra carrot.

Peter froze, wooden spoon still in the salad bowl. His cock, which had only just started to soften, jerked hard against his thigh. He stared at the back of her damp red hair, heart suddenly loud in his ears.

“Well… yes, I suppose so,” he managed, trying to sound casual.

Sophie straightened up and turned round. Her eyes flicked down for half a second to where his cock now stood long and rigid again, then back up to his face. She gave a small, polite nod, cheeks pink but expression calm.

“I think we still have a nice long one in the fridge,” she said, walking past him to open the door. Cool air rushed out. She bent forward, skirt riding high on her thighs, and reached inside. Peter watched the apron strings tighten across her bare back, her breasts hanging heavy as she searched.

She pulled out a long, dark-green cucumber, cool from the fridge, and held it up. “This one looks perfect,” she said, running her long fingers once along its length to check. A few drops of water clung to the skin.

Peter swallowed. His cock twitched visibly. Sophie noticed, but didn’t comment. She carried the cucumber to the sink, turned the tap, and began rinsing it the way she had rinsed the carrots earlier: one hand holding the end, the other stroking firmly up and down the full length, slow and thorough, water running over her knuckles.

Peter stood rooted to the spot, naked and aching, watching her repeat the motion again and again, exactly the way he had taught her.

After a minute she looked over her shoulder. “Could you come and check if it’s clean enough?” she asked politely, eyes bright, a tiny smile at the corner of her mouth. Peter got closer, Sophie now facing him and showing the cucumber proudly. “You want me to wash it like this, right?” She inquired, while stroking the cucumber gently and slowly.

“Yes, that looks perfect…” Peter managed to say.

“Should I try my technique on your cucumber instead?” Sophie asked with a smile while reaching for the olive oil.

“Oh, yes, sure” Peter said, and watched her lower herself to face his cock. Sophie was crouched low, knees wide, bum on her heels. The soaked apron hung open, her heavy breasts swaying freely on the sides, flushed deep pink, areolae glistening, nipples tight. Her face was scarlet, damp messy red hair stuck to her cheeks and neck, and her skin was shiny with sweat and piss. Her blue-green eyes fixed upward on Peter with shy, breathless concentration.

She kept the real cucumber in her right hand, stroking it slowly, deliberately: long slender fingers wrapped tight, sliding from thick base to rounded tip, twisting gently at the crown, then gliding back down.

Peter’s cock throbbed inches from her face, rigid and leaking. She watched it twitch, then, without a word, shifted the cucumber lower. Her left hand tugged the soaked cotton of her knickers aside, revealing soft red curls and slick, swollen lips. She guided the cool vegetable down, pressed the blunt end against herself, and eased it in with one slow push through her wet pussy. A soft, shaky exhale left her throat as the thick length disappeared inside her, only the last inch still gripped between her fingers. One end of the cucumber was standing on the floor, the other end buried deep in her cunt.

She stayed like that, impaled, breasts rising and falling fast. Then her right hand moved again, stroking the base of the cucumber in and out in tiny, deliberate thrusts while her left hand finally wrapped around Peter’s shaft. Cool, wet fingers closed firmly and began the same rhythm she had perfected: long, slick pulls from root to head, twist, back down.

“This cucumber feels so warm in my hand,” she whispered, cheeks burning darker, “and the other one is stretching me so nicely.” Her left hand kept stroking him steadily, wrist flicking at the top, thumb circling the head each time. The cucumber moved in and out of her in perfect time, a quiet wet sound joining the soft slap of her fist on his cock.

She looked up, eyes glassy, lips parted. Between slow, deliberate strokes she spoke, voice trembling with effort and arousal.

“Tell me what to do when it’s ready,” she said. Stroke. Twist.

“Should I let it explode on my face?” Another long pull, her breasts swaying heavily. She started jerking him off with both hands.

“Or should I open my mouth and catch it all?” She quickened for three fast strokes, then slowed again.

“Maybe on my bare chest… let it run down between my breasts?” She lowered herself deeper into the cucumber, she gasped softly.

“Or should I try to keep it from exploding… milk it slow until you can’t hold it any longer?”

Her hands never stopped. She waited, flushed and trembling, for Peter to choose.