True Sex Stories: Day Four

When Leah's boyfriend comes to visit, no room is safe from their amorous excursions. Not even the kitchen.

We are in the kitchen cooking together. The boyfriend can't make anything more complicated than a salad. He is cutting vegetables for me. He is my sous-chef.

The roles are reversed momentarily, or so I believe, until he hands me a cucumber and tells me to pull down my jeans. He goes to his knees and deftly slices away the front panel of my underwear. Taking the cucumber from me, he rubs it over my pussy lips and tells me to fuck myself with it. I take it in hand and squeeze the tip past the entrance. I bend at the knees and push more of it inside. I turn the vegetable in my grip and lower my weight until it is halfway in, then extract and repeat on the other side.

He washes the carrots in the sink, peels off their skin, and passes them to me one after another. I press each into my pussy. The vegetables are longer than his cock and more slender. My juices coat the surfaces. Once they are out, he shaves and cuts and slices them for the salad.

I waddle around the kitchen, pants pooled at my feet, stirring the soup on the stove and readying the meal.

I hand him a baguette and ask him to spank me with it. He thwacks me with the bread, once on the ass, swinging it like a baseball bat, then uses the wooden spatula, twenty five times on the insides of my thighs. It reddens the skin, leaving it warm and stinging.

Later, he places the handle of the knife in my cunt, so that the blade points up. The erection I wear is obscene. He steadies the blade from below and cuts cherry tomatos in half on the knife's edge. It takes him several minutes. I am pouring wetness. It drips onto the floor. He notices and smears the tomatos over my lips. Extracting the knife, he touches the point to my clit. I clench the counter and close my eyes. I trust him. But the point is sharp. The metal is cold. My hands are clammy. There is the rush of fear. I cannot look away. He meets my eyes looking down and pulls the knife back. His fingers touch into my pussy. He has me clean them. His tongue flicks against mine as I lick between his fingers.

There is balsamic dressing on the salad when we eat, but I taste hints of myself as well. I asked him to come in the leaves of the lettuce, but he declined, preferring to save his semen for later.

I tell him about my fantasy. I think about us hosting a party. Our guests eat a salad like this, flavored with pussy juice and spunk. The whole meal is spiced in a similar manner. Our friends comment on the novel tastes of the food we serve. They have second helpings. They enjoy our sex. The very thought of it makes me squirm.

Republished with permission from Leah Lays London. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.