We flirted in a kitchen, a slap here, a nipple pinch there, waggling and licking. We cook naked, of course. Makes waggling a helluva lot more fun. After 100 years of fucking, we're still flirting. I love that about us.
I got all hot and bothered reading about polygamists and octopus larvae in National Geographic. I could see his ass and chest and gorgeous muscular arms across the room while he fussed around with pans, getting the fat, white shrimp ready for the butter and garlic saute. The thick, glossy magazine paper on my fingertips and all those pretty pictures and the smell of hot butter and finely minced garlic heating up in the pan made me wet. His movements, an animal in our kitchen, made me melt. I could feel it on my hands before I did it, the warm, slippery slide of butter. The sweet, milky spread of buttered fist onto warm cock. The sheen, the heat, the soft moan when I reached around with my small hand and slathered him.
I stroked his buttered cock all shiny and polished and glistening with saliva and oil. The butter spattered in the hot pan, bits of garlic browning nicely.
My mind spun around nervously. The soft butter in the dish had just one little dip out of the top from my greedy finger. It would take a lot more than that to moisturize his beautiful ass. Impulse beat me to it. I smacked him hard across the cheeks and rubbed in a palm full of fresh, silky soft butter into his butt. The kitchen smelled like home, like sex, like bending over and grabbing hold and arching back and......"Oh yeah, how about a buttery nipple," he spun me around but his mind didn't follow, his mind doesn't care about messing up the butter cube. His whole hand dove in an snatched up a fistful and he pounded it into my chest. My heaving mounds, if this were a Zane Grey western, but it's not. He smeared it all over my aching little breasts and made those tiny, hard nipples glow.
The butter began to brown in the pan as the butter on our skin became slick with sweat. His butter-flavored tongue found my pulse and when he finally shoved my face onto his hard, buttered cock, I was overcome with lust. Sword swallower, fire breather, wanting to swallow him whole, I took him deep and long, the smell of warm butter surrounding me like the hot summer wind. He tossed the bowl of glistening shrimp into the pan and grabbed my hair furiously, bringing me to my knees, the head of his cock erasing all memory of civility, of humanity. The shrimp began to color as he pulled my drooling mouth to his and bruised my lips with passion, then brought me down again, harder, harder, his balls smacking my cheeks, a stream of cum and saliva pooling on the shiny triangle of linoleum between his feet.
The more I have, the more I want. If you're in the kitchen, get naked. If you're naked in the kitchen and you spy a butter dish off to the left, between the drying rack and the sink and the peanut jar, remove the cover and dip your fingers and start a food fight. 100 years from now, when you're still flirting and fucking and laughing and slapping and drooling and fire breathing, you'll thank me.
After that, go to the desert, find a mudhole, and jump in.