Exploration with Food and Sex
"The Weekend Menu," a naughty Vanilla story by Tyler Lasiandra
Monday night was taco night. Tuesday was pasta – usually with tomato sauce from a jar, a sickly sweet red purée over too-soft noodles. Wednesday was burgers topped with American cheese accompanied with a side salad. Thursday was roast chicken. Friday was pizza, most often pepperoni or sausage, no green peppers or onions.
The weekends were a free-for-all, though. That was the deal that Deborah made with Nick. She could cook what she wanted on Saturday and Sunday nights, and he would eat it without complaint. Weekdays, she would go to her part-time job as a data entry specialist for an accountant in downtown DC, come home, and make dinner in their detached home in Alexandria. She used the same ingredients every week, with only minor variations. And throughout the week, she plotted what she wanted to cook, come the weekend.
Ditta's Kitchen, by Sean McCall (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
Nick came home every Friday night, walking through the door, kissing her soft and long on the lips, tipping her back on her heels. And every Friday he asked, "So, what are we having this weekend?"
The question was always asked with some trepidation—but not without an edge, a thrill of anticipation in his voice. Sometimes he reacted poorly to the meals—the spices in the Indian food or the texture of polenta turned him off. But as much as he liked his routine, he also enjoyed the shock that Deborah's exotic recipes delivered to his system. Sometimes, he asked for repeat dishes, if she might be interested in cooking melanzane or rabbit again. But Deborah preferred to always try new things.
This Friday, he asked the same question he asked every week, and she answered, "We're going to have coffee-marinated duck breast tomorrow, and on Sunday, we're going to have falafel.
"And," she continued, "I will be tying you to the bed on Saturday and running my fingernails over your chest until you get hard. Then, when your cock is ready for me, I'm going to ride you and scratch your chest and make you suck my fingers until I come."
Nick's cock stirred.
"Sunday, you will lick my asshole before you fuck it."
He groaned and she put her hand on his chest and gave him a tender kiss, lightly digging her nails into his skin through his dress shirt.
This was part of their deal, too. Early in their marriage, they would fuck after the spaghetti and chicken dinners – in other words, every Tuesday and Thursday. Deborah came almost every time, but afterward, as she watched him walk away, naked, to clean up, she would think, That's it?
Four years into their marriage, she said to him, "I need more," and they made their deal.
The first weekend after they negotiated their deal, she made Cornish hens, juicy and flavored with rosemary and thyme, accompanied by roasted yellow squash. After dinner, she sat above him and pressed her pussy over his lips, almost drowning him in her salt-wet as he lay prone on the bed. She brushed her long brown hair from her face so she could look directly into his green eyes, could see his lips and teeth as they met her body. She reached behind her and found his dick and wrapped her fingers lightly around it and felt his tongue move inside her in reaction.
His eyes closed and she could see him inhale, almost struggling against her, fighting for breath. She opened her palm and then curled her fingers, dragging her nails just over his skin from the base of his cock to its tip. He let out a muffled noise and locked his arms over her legs and pulled her down to him, driving his tongue into her.
When she felt the heat of his come cover her fingers, she came herself. His fingers dug into her thighs as she arched back and shook on top of him. She shook her head, trying to clear it of the red pulse of her orgasm, and then drew her fingers to her mouth, slowly sucking them clean, one by one. She rolled off him and they kissed. She tasted the lingering sweetness of her pussy on his lips.
Nick asked her, "So, what's for dinner tomorrow?"
Deborah came up with most of her ideas on Thursdays, as the chicken slow-roasted. She would lay on the bed, soft pillows propping her up, with her vibrator against her pussy on its lowest setting, pressing against her through her panties, her own hums mingling with the quiet buzz of the toy. She never let herself come until she'd come up with her plans for the weekend, and for Nick. And when she finally did, she would shake for a minute afterwards.
But on this Saturday night, as Deborah gently untied the soft nylon from Nick's wrists, she was haunted by the thought that, once again, she wanted more. She worried that she would always want more. But she didn't think she was asking too much.
She bent down and kissed the indentations on his wrists. She was naked, nipples aching from the bites she demanded from him as he was tied down, her thighs sore from bouncing on his cock. She ran her tongue over his palm and to the tips of his fingers.
She melted into Nick, sighing into his chest. She did want more. She wanted to leave scratch marks on his back on Tuesday. She wanted chicken provençal on Wednesday. But they'd made a deal.
"That was fun," he murmured, shifting his weight to lean on his side. He rubbed his eyes and asked, sleepily, "What kind of tacos are we having on Monday?"
"Chicken," replied Deborah, as she pushed herself off the bed and walked to the bathroom.
Nick sighed contentedly and fell back into the sheets.
The meat sizzled in the pan. Deborah stood over it, a wooden spoon poised in her hand, absently pushing at the food without any particular purpose. Beside the stove was a packet, red and yellow, which read: "The most 'authentic' Mexican flavorings." Nick had told her, years ago, that he'd used the same Senorita Santos's Spices since college and still loved it.
She ripped open the pouch and sniffed at the powder. It smelled... red. A flat, chemical monotone that didn't make Deborah think of food so much as an industrial park.
The clock on the microwave said 5:43. Nick would get home at six. Deborah put her hands on the counter and leaned forward, thinking. Abruptly, she yanked open the cabinets to the right of the sink. She paused in her rummaging to throw Senorita Santos into the trash, apologizing to the senorita as she did so. She pulled her mortar and pestle out and clunked it down on the counter. The grassy smell of cumin and coriander seeds filled the air.
The door opened, and she listened to Nick negotiating the shoe closet and the hall as he neared her. Deborah watched his face as he walked into the kitchen. He was in his Monday suit, grey over white with a slate tie. To Deborah's eye, the tones were just different enough to match.
"Before you say anything, just try it."
"Deb, I thought—"
She grabbed his tie and pulled, firmly drawing his face to hers. Her kiss was tinged with the sweet-sour of the lime and salt. Her fingers traced a line over the buttons of his shirt and followed the line straight down over his crotch, briefly grasping the hard line of his cock.
"Just try it."
She turned and gingerly picked up a piece of chicken. His mouth opened and accepted it, his lips wrapped gently around her fingers, softly biting before he let them go.
"Good," he said, around bites. Deborah could hear his breath quickening.
She ran her finger along his jaw line, pressed his cheek to her palm, and ran her thumb over his lips. She reached up into his hair and, once again, pulled him to her. "It'll keep. At least until after you do one thing for me."
"What's that?" he asked, the words struggling to find their way past their kisses, their mingling lips and tongue, the nips of teeth on lips. Deborah dug her fingers into his back as he moved his mouth to her neck, biting her.
She stepped back, her legs unsteady, and turned. She unzipped her skirt and shimmied so it fell to the floor in a pool at her feet. The sight of her bare ass made Nick hard. She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled.
"Fuck me." She put her hands on the counter and planted her feet apart. The heat of the kitchen brushed against the wet lips of her pussy. The blood rushing in her ears camouflaged the sound of Nick's pants dropping to the floor, so she was surprised at the sudden rough movement that brought his cock into her. She let out a gasp that turned into a drawn-out moan.
They clutched at each other as they fucked. Nick pulled back on Deborah's hair, yanking her head upward. She responded by drawing her nails against his leg before grabbing him and pulling him deeper into her, the muscle of his upper thigh tensing under her palms. He thrust into her again and again.
Deborah pushed Nick back, away from her. He steadied himself on the kitchen island behind him, like he wouldn't be able to stand without its support. She looked down at his cock, wet from her, and let out, between heaving breaths, "I want you in my mouth."
It took two deep sucks of his cock before he came. She could hear the lip of the island creak under his grip. Her fingers were in her own pussy as she knelt in front of him, as she swallowed his come, as she yelled out with her own orgasm.
His shaky legs could not hold him up. He knelt to the floor with her. She slid two fingers, covered with the sea-salt taste of her, into his mouth, roughly enough to push his head back. Nick grabbed her wrist and kept the fingers there until he couldn't taste anymore of her except her skin.
"Ready to eat?"
"Anything."
Originally published July 2010