You come into the kitchen dressed in one of my t-shirts, it reaches to mid-thigh. Your dark hair is slightly tousled but you’re more clear-eyed and rested than I expected after your condition the night before. I pour a glass of orange juice and you sit at the table, tucking a leg up beneath yourself to get comfortable.

“Thanks.” You drink the juice in one. “I’m starving.”

“I thought you might be.” Gas flares under the griddle pan. “I made up some batter. Blueberry pancakes and syrup?”

“Oh yes!”

I cook, we eat. You tell me about last night’s work party, I tell you about my exciting evening of reading. Afterwards I take the plates while you clear the table. I’m putting the dishwasher on when my t-shirt hits my head. I turn, and you’re lying naked across the table, drizzling maple syrup across your body.

“We have rules about the kitchen table.”

You chuckle, now you know I’m watching. I stand behind your head and run my hands down your torso, you continue to pour the syrup until the bottle is empty, you let it fall to the floor. I swirl the syrup round your breasts and down your belly. Reaching forward I rub it into your crotch and thighs. Reaching back you untie my gown, then tilt your head and kiss my stomach, sticking your tongue into my belly button. I work my hands back up your body, cupping your face, I lean down and we kiss. The smell of syrup is rich, but our kiss is richer. You nibble my lip, I move my hands back to your breasts and tease your nipples which are both slippery and sticky, a strange sensation.

You reach a hand behind your head, feeling for my cock, and slowly rub up and down my stiffness. I groan into our kiss, and have to break it.

Your other hand cups my balls. Now you’re stretched fully along the table, your back is arched, your knees up, bracing against the wooden surface. I reach forward and caress your breasts, cupping them and scraping my fingernail across the nipples.

You brace your feet and slide back until your head is off the end of the table, and you lean it back and take my balls into your mouth, sucking firmly, now using both hands on my cock. I grip your breasts as my breath is taken away. It’s only been moments, but already I feel urgency.

“Honey, I think I’m going to come.”

I expect you to stop, but you grip a little firmer, suck a little harder, and now I am squeezing your breasts, your nipples squashed into my palms. I cum, a stream that shoots up, arcing onto your neck and breasts.

I let go of your breasts when you let my sack out of your mouth.

“I thought that might do something for you,” you say. “Call it ‘thanks for breakfast’.” You grin up at me, while rubbing my cum into your skin, mixing it with the syrup. “But now I’m all sticky. I think I need a shower.”

“Well, we should get you cleaned up.”

You roll over and slide back off the table.

  “In a minute though,” I say.

You fall forward across the table, squashing your tits down. You arch your back, pushing your ass up, and spread your legs. “Fuck me now!” you demand.

Walking round the table to where your ass is wiggling makes my still stiff cock twitch. To just slide into you would be easy, would be a joy. But sex in the kitchen is a guilty pleasure, it comes with a price, to pay for all the cleaning I will have to do before being comfortable preparing food in it again.

Hooking the large spoon I use for stirring soup isn’t easy, I have to juggle to prevent it hitting the floor. You look round at the noise, realize your predicament and try to scoot away. Too slow. I push you back down onto the table.

“Sweetie, you know the rules on kitchen sex,” I say.

“I know. I just thought…”

“Wrong. Now. You going to be a good girl?”

As you nod, I spank you. The metal spoon slaps your bare ass and you yelp.

Keeping you pushed firmly against the table with one hand, I wield the spoon with the other, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP. Your ass is bright red when I finish. You have stopped squealing, but the heave of your chest tells me you are sobbing.

I caress your butt, feeling the heat. Whispering soothing nothings I move behind you, changing from caressing your ass to sliding up and down your legs, reaching forward until I’m feeling your cunt. It’s as moist as I expect and two fingers slide in easily. You’re still crying, but now you’re pushing against me and I take my fingers out and thrust my cock into you. You grunt, satisfied, and reach forward to hold the other side of the table. As I move in and out, our skin slaps together.

You start to groan, encouraging me to go harder. I respond. The whole table judders, and you call out as you cum. I keep thrusting, you ripple the muscles inside and that sends me over the edge. I cum again with small jerky thrusts.

“Am I forgiven?” You ask.

“Forgiven, yes. But I reckon you still deserve a session in the play room.”

You wiggle against me.

“My ass?”

”Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Yes.”

You sigh in your throat. “What about a shower just now?”

“Mmm, that sounds like a good idea.”