February 4, 2013 by E.
This story takes place back in Chapel Hill, a few days after we returned from our adventurous spring break cruise. Although we’d been caught by our chaperones, nothing between A. and I had really changed. We still craved each other’s company and wanted to continue to take advantage of our grad school program’s early spring break. You see, our spring break was a week early, so when we returned to class, A.’s girlfriend was leaving for her own tropical vacation.
The differences in schedules meant that A. and I, effectively, had two full weeks with almost unparalleled freedom. In those two weeks, we had more alone time than we’d ever had before. I could text him whenever I wanted; he could visit frequently. When he left my apartment, he began to linger even longer at the front door. Our goodbye kisses were less carnal and more…of something else. Neither of us had dared to mention how things would change once his girlfriend returned from her spring break. It’s amazing how stubbornly we ignored what was obviously approaching.
Because of all this uncertainty, I retreated to my comfort zone – the kitchen. Whenever I need a break from stress, from frustration, from reality, I cook something. That time was no different. When I’m in the kitchen, I think about ingredients and cooking times, not a boy who is suddenly no longer just a fuck buddy, but…is something more?
Anyway, I spent all day in the kitchen making homemade ravioli and chocolate mousse. Then, I called A. to come over for dinner. He told his extremely picky, seafood-hating roommate that I made lobster ravioli, so A. was allowed to come unchaperoned.
Sometime between when A. texted to tell me he was on his way and when he knocked on my door 7 minutes later, I had the rather scandalous idea that it might be fun if he opened the door and I was only wearing my apron and high heels. It was an entirely impromptu decision, probably sparked by something I’d seen on a TV show or read about in a trashy novel. Wherever I’d gotten the inspiration, the trick certainly worked wonders. In my opinion, there’s not much more arousing to a man than watching a mostly naked woman serve him a martini and then cook him dinner.
And it didn’t take long before I was able to reap the benefits of my outfit as well.
We were sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying the last of our chocolate mousse dessert, when A. dropped his spoon on the ground and bent to retrieve it. Except, he wasn’t going after his spoon. He slipped under the table and within seconds, I felt his tongue on me. It was a complete surprise, something no one else has ever done to me before. He ate me out, right there at the table. After I came, we moved to the couch, to the floor, and to the kitchen counter. By the time he left my apartment, a few hours later, we were both full and exhausted, the roughness and urgency of our sex stemming from the belief that as long as we were having rough sex, we didn’t care for each other outside of the bedroom.
Slow sex after all, is for lovers, and we certainly couldn’t be that.