The Kitchen Karaoke Incident - Sex Stories

The Kitchen Karaoke Incident

... over the back of the couch. His eyes left me momentarily and surveyed the carnage that used to be his pristine kitchen.

“Um,” I said. “I cooked you dinner. Sit down, and I’ll serve you.”

The fine art of serving somebody dinner while bottomless and being fondled to the brink of orgasm was not a skill that I instantly mastered. I managed to bumble through the task, spending far longer standing there getting fingered than was needed or necessary. I served him a plate of food or at least some sustenance that could resemble food if an unskilled maniac hadn’t done the preparation.

I readied myself for extreme criticism, but he gleefully sat and ate, clearing his plate. While I’d often eaten in the nude at my house, dining like that in front of somebody, even a person I had recently had the best sex in the universe with, was a surreal experience. His small talk was casual, penetrative, and lit my lusty fires.

“Why is there tape on your finger?” he asked me. “Did you cut yourself?”

My panicked state, which had already reached a frenzy when he found me be-bopping around the kitchen like an imbecile, was raised beyond any def-con stage—pure, frenetic terror was my level. What excuse could I possibly give? The electrical tape was in one of his work sheds, so it wasn’t like it just happened to be lying about.

“Ah, yeah. About that,” I began, tentatively. My already-Cuisinart-pureed brain scrambled for any tenuous excuse. “It’s a sex thing,” I said, triumphantly. “You ...

... know, role-playing? I’m the adoring housewife, and you’re my husband, desperately needing to seduce me.”

“If I’m the husband, then shouldn’t I bitch about your cooking, ignore you, and then go hang out with my friends all night?”

“No! No, no, no! You’re the good kind of husband, and your only goal is to give me pleasure.”

He laughed with all the mirth in the universe, then stared at me, scowling. “Nope. No good.”

“My cooking? I know. I’m so sorry I wrecked your kitchen and fucked everything up. I’ll get better, I promise.”

“Your cooking is fine, and it was delightful to come home to a ready dinner—almost as good as seeing your divine perfection. Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“No place special. Trust me.”

Usually, those two words, trust me, are danger signs. If a man who’s trying to fuck you says, “Trust me,” that always indicates that he’s untrustworthy. Him, though, I trusted. We’d been together for over six months, and he’d never once fibbed to me, let alone break my trust.

“But I’m nude.”

“That doesn’t bother me. In fact, I think it’s a universal law that a body so perfect should never be covered. Let’s go.”

He was already striding toward the door, so I grabbed my coat, which was knee-length, threw it on, and followed him to his car. As soon as I was seated, I spread my legs wide, showing him my bare pussy. My liquid arousal made my pussy lips shiny, and some of it was seeping out of my pulsating hole.

“Do you like seeing your wife like this?” I ...