The Cook

It had been weeks since Dee last got off. As she lay there in her bed, she looked at the clock her ex had given her. It was 9 in the morning. Long before the bustle of her day would start. She still had enough time. She took off her t-shirt and shorts and yanked the covers off her, feeling the cool air caress her skin. With one hand, she squeezed her breast and with the other, she started playing with her clit. Involuntarily, her knees came up and she arched her back. She closed her eyes, twisted her head to one side and bit her lower lip as her fingers felt the slippery wetness come on.

She pushed her head back into her pillow as she lifted her ass up, thrusting her hips against her hand. Her fingers played with her nipple, teasing it into hardness. She could feel every line, every ridge. As she felt herself nearing her orgasm, her hand left her breast and moved to her mouth. Her lips wrapped around her thumb, her tongue moistening it. She sucked and bit her hot skin on the back of her hand, while her other hand slipped around in the wetness as she worked her clit furiously. She was almost there. Ready to come hard. She felt herself clench in expectation when the doorbell rang loudly, rudely interrupting her bliss.

Dee considered ignoring it and finishing what she had started. But the doorbell rang again. Annoying and insistent, demanding immediate attention, almost as if running out of patience. With a resigned sigh, Dee got out of the bed. Quickly washing her hands, she threw her shorts and t-shirt back on. The doorbell rang again. “I’m coming!” she hissed, not missing the irony of her words. She opened the door, irritation written all over her face. It was her cook, Karen. She stood there, smiling somewhat apologetically. “Sorry I’m early today. It’s Sunday and I have somewhere to be after I’m done here,” she said. Dee felt herself calm down. Who wouldn’t? With that smile of hers, even a raging bull would stop in its tracks, lie down and roll over. No matador needed.

Dee felt her lips taking on the shape of a smile. “It’s okay. Come,” she said, mentally rolling her eyes as the words left her mouth. As Karen walked in, Dee couldn’t help but notice how her jeans wrapped around her ass. Round and firm, it was gorgeous and begging to be squeezed hard. Dee shook her head to clear the thoughts out of her mind. As Karen brushed past Dee into the kitchen, Dee followed. “What would you like today?” Karen asked, casually resting against the black, granite platform. Her hands held on to the cold, hard stone, as she leaned forward, lifting her eyebrow questioningly. Dee could make out the smooth shape of her breasts and the faint outline of her nipples against the top that clung to that tight, toned body.

Completely distracted, Dee stammered, unable to find the words that would allow her to respond. Forcing herself to look up at Karen’s face, she cleared her throat and said, “How about something simple? Rotis and dal?” Karen nodded and smiled that smile again. “How about you? I’d like to try that,” Dee muttered under her breath as she turned to walk out of the kitchen.

“Okay. I’ll get started then,” Karen called out. Dee turned around to say that she’ll be in her room if she needed anything and saw her cook bending. As she searched for vessels, her ass stuck out. Squatting to get a better view of the utensils cabinet, she reached out for the ones she needed, her top inching up and revealing that delicate part of her back. That part where her top ended and her jeans began. Her skin was like smooth, dark velvety chocolate. Dee wanted to run a finger across it to feel it. She stood riveted to the spot, her mouth dry and afraid to blink.

As Karen got up, Dee turned and hurried away, not wanting to be caught staring like a cat at a canary. She went to her room but her mind was still flashing images of that ass and bare back. She picked up a book and went back into the kitchen. She sat down at the table from where she had a perfect view. Karen turned at the sound of the chair scraping across the tiles and on spotting Dee, she gave her a smile. Dee mumbled something about giving her company and started reading her book. Karen laughed and said, “Good. I could use some.” Taking some flour out, she started mixing it in a vessel. Her hands kneading and shaping it. Her slender fingers digging in and squeezing it. Dee watched as if in a trance, her mouth open and her book long forgotten. Her eyes took in the pulse throbbing on Karen’s smooth neck as she tilted her head from side to side, matching the rhythm her fingers were working up. Her arm moving against and gently pressing into her breast as she put her weight into the soft dough. The sigh of effort that was almost a breathy moan.

Dee felt herself getting wet and her breath quickening. She watched as Karen, her hands covered with flour, reached up to the cabinet to get the salt. Her top rose, revealing her smooth skin and the delicate curve of her waist. Dee jumped up to help. “Here. Let me get it,” she said. Both of them reached up at the same time. Without meaning to, Dee placed a hand on her Karen’s exposed waist as she reached for the salt. She heard her suck her breath in and saw her close her eyes from the corner of hers. Did she imagine it or did Karen move slightly to lean into her? Dee couldn’t be sure. She decided to see if her cook was really reacting the way she thought she was. She ducked, bringing her face closer to Karen’s neck. She stepped closer, her tits brushing Karen’s back. She then moved her thumb slowly across the naked skin on her waist. Softly yet hard enough to make its presence known.

This time there was no mistake. Throwing her head back, Karen held on the platform as she moved back and thrust her ass into Dee. Forgetting the salt, Dee leaned into her. Sticking her thumbs into the waistband of her cook’s jeans, she attacked her neck. She sucked hungrily while Karen closed her eyes and let out a moan. Dee moved her hands. Her fingers caressed Karen’s lips, who responded by sucking and running her wet tongue over them. Dee pressed her other hand between Karen’s legs, feeling the rising warmth even through her jeans.

Karen immediately thrust her hip against Dee’s hand, pinning it between her and the platform. Dee pulled back on Karen’s waist, freeing her hand. She unbuttoned the jeans and pulled the zipper down as Karen started breathing faster. Dee thrust a hand down down her sheer black panties that were now dripping wet. Karen moaned, “Fuck……me.” Dee responded by stroking her swollen clit. Karen arched her back and held on the platform with one hand while the other hand reached up behind and grabbed Dee’s hair. Dee slipped her hand up into the Karen’s top and cupped her breast, feeling the nipple harden against the bra. Not bothering to unhook it, she thrust her hand under the bra and squeezed, eliciting a moan. With one hand squeezing her breast and playing with her nipple, Dee started making those hypnotic circles on Karen’s clit, driving her mad with pleasure. She then moved her finger down, slowly sliding it into Karen. She was hot and deliciously tight. She began sliding her finger in and out, while her palm rubbed rhythmically against her clit. Karen matched her with thrusts of her hip. They started coming faster and faster as Dee’s finger quickened the pace. “More,” Karen gasped. Dee slid another finger in, making Karen moan loudly with pleasure.

As Karen fell back into Dee with a strangled moan, Dee felt her come. Karen pulled Dee’s head closer to her neck as she clenched again and again and again. Dee stopped moving her fingers and waited. When she felt Karen finally stop shuddering, she slowly slid her fingers out. Karen turned, smiled and planted a soft kiss on Dee’s cheek. “Give me a minute,” she said. Slipping out of Dee’s arms, she went to the sink and washed her hands. Wiping them dry, she came back to Dee and asked, “Right. Where were we?” With a smile on her face, she moved closer and kissed Dee deeply, slipping her tongue in. Pushing Dee back slowly and out of the kitchen, she whispered, “Oh yeah. It’s my turn now.”

About the author

Lady Jughead

Lady Jughead lives and writes in the city she loves and hates, Bombay. Without meaning to and harbouring mixed feelings about it (You’ll see the irony in just a bit), she’s forever wandering in the murkiness that exists between straight and gay, clear and clueless, butch and femme, cute and hot, and genius and insane. All of which leave her with a question that often occupies a significant portion of her cognitive capacity – is she Just Perfect or is she falling fast into the deep chasm of obscurity called Just Average?