Mmmmm....

This isn't mine. This comes from Trollop with a Laptop. You can get it here. Still, He is a fantastic cook, and suddenly I wish I were on the menu:

Prego

By Alison Tyler

We have such a fucked up, twisted, we’ll always have (last tango in) Paris sort of relationship, that nothing fazes me anymore. I mean nothing in the bedroom. Even our most vanilla activities tend to involve accoutrements such as rubber dishwashing gloves, velvet blindfolds, and Wesson oil. So I suppose I shouldn’t have found it odd at all to walk through the swinging doors of our kitchen and discover Jackson fucking the jar of spaghetti sauce.

But I did.

Both find him, and find it odd.

On any other night, I would have seen him fucking that wide-mouthed jar, and thought, *Yum. Dinner.* I might have taken a seat at the counter and watched, or even have asked him why he’d chosen Prego rather than Ragu. I can imagine wondering idly whether Garden Variety worked better for fucking than Marinara. But we were currently hosting a dinner party for six, and I could see from the open cabinet, that he was using our last jar.

“Please, Carrie,” he said when he heard me enter.

With the very real knowledge of our invited guests waiting in the dining room, and the equally real vision of my husband fucking a jar of pasta sauce, all my thoughts came to a basil-fragranced stop.

“Please,” he said again, his voice as hungry as I imagined our guests to be.

Please what? I wondered. Please slip out to the grocery store and buy more sauce. Please go and tell our friends that dinner’s going to be late. Please…

"Get down on your knees,” he continued.

I was still in mild shock. Jackson had on a pair of black slacks and a black-fitted t-shirt. He looked dashing and normal, except for the fact that he was holding a jar of pasta sauce at waist-level. Water for the angel hair bubbled rapidly behind him on the stove. The sauce was the last thing, the most pressing thing left to cook.

How could he have…why would he have?“On your knees,” he said, and now there was no scusi in his voice, no per favore to his tone. I watched the way he was dipping his cock into the half-full bottle, and for a moment I forgot all about our guests. Forgot that we’d decided to host a dinner party in honor of our tenth anniversary. Forgot that sauce stains.

I dropped to my knees on the slick linoleum floor and waited. Usually, I know what I’m doing in this situation. On my knees, mouth open, Jackson’s cock slipping back and forth past my parted lips. The warm wet heat of my mouth enveloping him. But now, now what did he want from me? He had the pasta jar. he didn’t need my mouth, too, did he, greedy thing?

Apparently, he did.

“Taste this,” he said, smiling that sly Jackson smile at me, “And tell me what you think it needs.”

I looked at his cock, all covered in pasta sauce, and then I looked back up at him.

“Are you serious?”

I shouldn’t have asked. He pushed forward, grabbing the back of my hair at the same time, and suddenly, I found myself sucking Prego from his rock-hard shaft. I should say that I am a pasta-junkie. I don’t care if pasta is the cheapest thing for a restaurant to make, don’t give a damn if $19 for a plate of macaroni is obscene. Every time we go out, that’s what I order. I like red sauce best, what Italians mean when they say gravy.

And I should also say that I love sucking cock. I have gotten on my knees for Jackson in far stranger places than our kitchen. I’ve sucked him on the ferry from Larkspur to San Francisco, with the salt spray behind me and San Quentin to my left. I’ve drained him on an airplane, the red eye from L.A.X. to La Guardia, while our fellow passengers snoozed zombie-like beneath those thin gray throwaway blankets, and I worked hard to keep my slurping sounds to a minimum. And I’ve sucked him on our fire escape, overlooking Chestnut Avenue, as early morning commuters slogged toward yet another workday.

But I had never mixed these two pleasures before—sauce and sucking, fellatio and food. Not until now. Not until Jackson had finished slamming that bottle of sauce to death, and was ready for me to clean up every wayward drop.

For only a moment, did I worry about what the sauce would do to my face, my hair, my outfit. For only one sliver of time, did I hesitate, remembering my best friend and her fiancé out there, in the dining room, talking about the Oscars with Jackson’s college roommate, Eli, and his lover, Joe. What would they think if one were to push through our swinging kitchen door and find me on my knees, covered in sauce.

“Oh, prego,” Jackson murmured, and I had to fight off the giggles that threatened to spill out. We’d gone on our honeymoon to Italy. We’d learned all of five words during the two weeks we were there: grazie, per favore, scusi, and prego. We’d said the words constantly to each other, pretending we were having legitimate conversations, like the other couples in the cafes.

Grazie, grazie.

Per favore.

We’d spoken those phrases to each other in bed. Jackson stroking me, sweetly touching my hair, my face, then flipping me onto the mattress, spitting on his palm and oiling up his cock. Saying, “Per favore, Carrie,” before thrusting inside of me, sealing himself to me.

During our honeymoon, I hadn’t worried that he was the last man I’d ever fuck. Instead, I’d thought with pleasure that we would be fucking together forever. Just the two of us. In our twisted, kinky, we’ll always have Milan and Venice and Rome sort of ways. And now, we were adding to the repertoire, my mouth working hungrily on Jackson’s sauce-covered cock, my pussy twitching in anticipation of what might be next on the menu. When I cleaned off the sauce, would he bend me over our island and screw me? Or would he spread me out on our Corian countertop and drizzle olive oil all over my skin?

But maybe, I decided, I shouldn’t worry so much about secondo when we were still on the appetizer. I could feel the cool black-and-white linoleum through my fishnets. I was infinitely aware of the flavor of the sauce in my mouth, combined with the real scent of Jackson’s cock, Jackson’s skin.

My tongue flicked out to touch his balls as I brought one hand into play. I wrapped my fist around the base of his shaft as I continued to bob on the head. What had made him dip his cock into the sauce in the first place, I wondered. What had gone through his mind as he’d unscrewed the jar of the wide-mouthed bottle?

Unfortunately, I couldn’t ask. My mouth was too busy, too full. I could feel the sauce on my cheeks now, could feel the spread of it from my lips to chin.

He was groaning softly as I sucked him, and he pushed my hair off my forehead and gazed down at me. I wondered if sauce had splattered my dress. If my breasts, visible in the V-neck of my scarlet jersey, were freckled with the juicy tomato puree.

I continued to suck him even after all the sauce was gone, so that his cock was clean and shiny from the wetness of my mouth. Jackson tried to lift me up then, and I guessed he was going to fuck me, but I couldn’t let him. The sensation was so sweet, sucking him to the sounds of clinking glasses in the dining room, to the knowledge that at any moment we might be discovered. I could see the half-filled bottle of Prego on the counter, and that turned me on more than anything I could have imagined. Who would ever have guessed—forget oysters or ginger—this was pasta sauce as an aphrodisiac. Thinking of Jackson just screwing that bottle while the rest of us waited for our pasta course made me wetter than I could imagine. I fantasized about all of the actions he’d been doing while I had busily entertained our guests—envisioned him undoing his slacks and slipping his cock into the sauce-filled jar. The sound must have been intense. That sucking sound.

Oh, fuck.

I put one hand between my legs then, touching myself through the layer of my dress and the creamy white panties I had on beneath. I could sense right when Jackson had reached his limits, because first I tasted the salty-flavor of his pre-come, and then the liquid of his climax filled my mouth.

Practice has made me an expert at swallowing him down, at draining his cock without spilling a drop. I felt pleased with myself as I backed up to give him room, but my fingers didn’t stop their spirals over my clit.

“Show me,” Jackson begged. “Per favore.”Grinning like a fool, I lifted my dress, still kneeling on the floor. Jackson got on the floor with me, and his fingers took over. I looked down to see the red stain of the sauce from his fingertips mark my panties. How sexy was that? I couldn’t stop staring as he rotated his fingertips right over the placket of my panties. I have always loved being touched through a barrier, and this time was no different. Except, in a way, it was. Because there was sweet sauce on his hands, so that I could see the trail of his touches. See the path his fingers took. I wanted that sauce all over me. Wanted him to mark me with the tomato puree. Then suddenly, I was coming, his middle finger hitting my clit in the perfect rhythm. I clutched onto him, aware that we both smelled like basil, like oregano. Aware that the pasta water was rollicking now. That we had nothing to serve our guests.

My eyes were glazed when Jackson stood. I watched him, but I didn’t understand. He moved me to the far doorway, not the one leading to our dining room, but the one that led out to the hall. Moved me so that I was far away from him, and then, before I could say a word, he dropped the sauce jar so that it shattered on the floor.

“What?” I stammered. “why?”

“What do you think?”

The remaining sauce went everywhere—perhaps the red juices wouldn’t have covered my panties on its own—but the breaking of the bottle served to give us both a reason to change. To apologize to our guests for the slight delay in their meal. To head to the bathroom down the hall for a quick cleanup.

And a quicker fuck.

Jackson took me for real in the bathroom, took me against the shower, the scent of soap washing away the last remnants of the Prego. I was sad to see the water turn from red to clear, I must admit. And I think Jackson felt the same way. As we dried off together, I saw him lick the last drop of sauce from his top lip.

“Delicious,” he told me. “We’ll have to cook for guests more often.”

When we returned, Eli was in the kitchen, whipping up a sauce from frozen pesto. He and Joe had taken it upon themselves to clean up, and Joe was gingerly sweeping the shards of the bottle into our dustpan.

“Grazie, grazie,” Jackson said with his usual buoyant charm.

“Prego,” Eli replied easily as he stirred the pot on the stove.

I felt my cheeks turn as red as the sauce, still clinging to the shards of broken glass.

Monogamy

This post will be outside my norm. That's fine; this is my blog, after all.

I've never been any good at monogamy. I really don't understand the traditional definition of it. Well, yes, I do understand the traditional definition. I just wonder if it really works. Just about every relationship I've had, and just about every relationship my friends have had (hell, I'm going with just about everyone now) has involved some sort of cheating.

Cheating is certainly relative. From what I've gathered, cheating to men means that their woman has had sex with another person. Cheating to women can mean that as well, but also, often, means that her man is emotionally involved with another woman.

I'm not tackling gay relationships here. Those are beyond my experience.

From my own experience, I know that I've never had a serious relationship where I could stay faithful. The interest, the desire, the need to be needed is too strong. I hate that I've hurt those people.

Now I have Him. He told me from the beginning that He would not be faithful. I protested at first. He asked me when the last time I was faithful was. I had to be honest. He smirked. (We've known each other for a long time, long before we're finally trying to get this right.) I realized what He meant. I always wanted to have my boyfriend around, but be free to do what I wanted to do. I now realize that I can't have it both ways. This means I have to allow the freedom to explore for Him and for me.

He's too important to me to not let Him. I know that He loves me. I know that I love Him.

Now, finding people who understand this free, honest relationship is a different matter. I want more others who are willing to engage with me, knowing the parameters. My friends already think I'm crazy for agreeing to these terms. Does it seem strange? It doesn't to me. I know I am occasionally jealous. That's usually because He's getting more attention than me. I've seen the pendulum shift when I get more attention. All He and I have to do is be sensitive to it.

PS - Don't expect to read a lot of posts like these. This place is about raw animal sexuality.

My Favorite Morning

As I've told Him, I often awake empty. I mean empty in both the physical and emotional sense. It seems strange when I awake and He's not next to me. Even worse, I hate waking up without Him in me. I want each and every morning to awake with His cock in me. That's how I know I'm alive. That's how I know that He loves and desires me.

Emotionally: He can make me laugh more than anyone else. He makes me feel gorgeous and wanted. He loves me for my mind as much as He loves my body.

My favorite morning is awaking with Him in me and on me, kissing me. He then cooks, and I crawl and beg for Him. He feeds me from His fingers. The we go back to bed.

Tonight I miss Him.