Sally's Cream Pies

Rosalind lay there, her back coated in a thin sheen of come, massaged into her freckled skin by his fingers and the circles of his palms.

Like any moisturiser, the body warm fluid thinned and spread, and with the constant circular movement, was slowly absorbed into her skin. Hot and smooth and gone.

"Better than Mary Arden, don't you think?"

But the woman was too tired to respond. It had been a busy day for her, shit clients, the server crashed, nothing went right. Then, just after her lunchtime break, fresh air in the park, the crust from her sandwiches feeding ducks, laughing at their silly tails bobbing up in the water, feet paddling furiously, the phone rang.

"Hey, I got back sooner than I thought. How about I get to yours early, make dinner. Prank me when you get off the train, and I'll start running the bath. Soon as you get home, it's time to spoil Rosie."

She went back to her work station, and noticed Sally watching her, a little smile on her face. Sally was the office mum, a Greek woman, somewhere in her forties. A typical Greek cook, always bringing in the most delicious, most lethal desserts and cakes. Traditional recipes, cream, rich custard, thick dark chocolate cakes, sweet dessert pies to die for.

"Rosie," she said softly, "have you got a secret? Is there something you're keeping from us. You know how we love to goss."

Rosie blushed, her cheeks a bright red, and oh goodness, a blaze down her neck to the blaze of freckles across her collar bones. Sally was always trying to fix Rosie up with this cousin, that cousin.

"Theo, he's a nice boy, you'd like him. Or George, George will do the dishes. He's a good boy."

Seems Sally had half of Athens just around the block, and all of them related. All of them, too, with the greatest array of domestic skills, all most unlikely.

"He'll do the ironing, you watch. His mama always made him do the ironing, when he was a little boy. He knows how to look after a lovely girl like you."

Rosalind indulged Sally, she was one of those warm, wonderful women who always knew exactly what to do, what to say, what to give.

"Rosie does," Sally whispered excitedly. "I can tell, she's got a secret. Promise, I won't tell."

She never did tell, Sally. Even though it always sounded as if she was going to blurt it all out at the top of her voice, Sally was in fact the soul of discretion. Nothing passed her by, but nothing passed her lips, either.

"Oh, Rosie, take some of this dessert home with you. There's enough for three servings. You look like you need feeding up."

Sally wanted all the women in the office to be big, healthy girls, just like her.

"Good Greek boys, they like meat on their women."

"Oh Sally," Rosalind laughed, "I'm not marrying a Greek boy, doesn't matter how good his mama says he is. Every boy is perfect in his mama's eyes."

And God help her when nana has an opinion!

That Sally though, how did she always know?

Rosalind did cut the three pieces, as Sally suggested.

Sally counted what was left over. That's how Sally always knew.

Her desserts were always so good, no girl, no woman, would ever dare not take home a piece for her man, a piece for herself, and another piece. Sally always knew. She was the best cook, after all.

As Rosalind left the station, she dialled the number, let it ring four times, and rang off. Into her mind flashed the turn of the taps, adjusted for the hot, needs to be just right. His arm reaching for the crystals, three shakes and the bubbles foam.

She smiles, another busy city worker hot from the crowded train, looking forward to stretching her long limbs in the hot bath. She walked a little faster, eager to get to her apartment, to escape the noise and hustle of the city. Oh goodness, the idea of a hot bath was wonderful.

And of course, he would be waiting for her, a big hug for Rosie as soon as she got in the door. His eyes would light up in huge smile, his adorable crooked smile, his bright blue eyes gazing into her dark ones. He would straighten her glasses for her.

"Got to see clearly, Rosie. Always got to see clearly."

And his finger would touch the tip of her nose, and then the side of his own, two tiny taps. Tap tap. Just like that.

"I see clearly now, you're home. Come on, the bath is run."

And right there, he undoes all the buttons of her coat, all down the front, his fingers quick. Rosalind turns, and he takes the coat and hangs it on its hook by the front door. One of her tapestries is there, a carefully executed picture of a coat hanging by a door.

He kneels before her, and takes one foot in his hand, and eases the tight shoe off her foot, baring her stockings.

"Oh god, it's good to be out of them," she sighs, as she lifts up her other foot, stretching her toes, stretching the tight calf muscles.

His hands run up one of her long leg to the top of the stocking, and deftly unclips the snap of her garter. Rosalind stands motionless as he rolls the stocking down her leg, and he does the same to the other. He runs his warm hands down the back of her firm thighs, a long swift pressure down the centre of the tight muscles, and continuing down the back of her calves.

She stretches up on to her toes, like the dancer she was when just a young girl. As she stretches, he rises to his feet and stands behind her. Again, his fingers are swift on the run of black buttons all down her back. Her bare back shivers in the cool air, or his warm fingers. Rosie doesn't know which is which.

She leans forward just a little, to take the tension of the cloth away from her shoulders, and feels the weight of her breasts a satisfying fill into the cups of her bra, thin straps on her shoulders. He is behind her, so he undoes the two hooks in the strap at her back, and she holds the cloth of the bra and the blouse to her breasts, pressing her palms hard to her soft fullness, holding the cloth there.

He is behind her, so undoes the zip down the side of her skirt. Rosalind shimmies her hips to help him pull the tight fit of her skirt down her long legs to a puddle of grey cloth at her feet.

Rosalind's luscious, curved bottom cheeks are caressed in a soft curve of pale cloth, just a simple band of embroidered lace all around the top. They are cotton and lace, comfortable and figure pressing, just right for the smooth curve of her hips.

He is behind her, so takes the sides of her knickers and tugs them down, one long smooth movement down her long legs. She lifts her feet, one two, and the drift of cloth joins the grey of her skirt pooled on the timber floor, the stockings rolled there too.

He has dropped to his knees to get the froth of cloth all the way down. So he places a single kiss, right at the base of her spine, right where the crease of her cheeks join and become firm.

"Got to get back to the kitchen, Rosie, I'll bring you a drink when you're in the bath."

He slapped her on the ass, playfully, and returned to the kitchen.

Rosalind, tall and wonderful in her undressed nakedness, shut the door of the bathroom behind her, dropped her blouse and bra to the floor, and stood in front of a long mirror, all the way down the wall.

This is what she saw, this is what she looks like after a long day at work, a commute by train, and fifteen minutes of walking at each end. Five minutes to her office, ten minutes to her apartment, fifteen storeys high. Worse, when the lifts don't work.

She is a tall woman, and her legs are long. Her feet are sore, her shoes a little too tight. But worth the pain, for when she wears three and a half inch heels, the top of her head is six foot above the ground, more if she wears her hair, her thick, luscious, dark brown hair, high on her head.

That is as tall as many a business man in a charcoal suit. So Rosalind can stare her clients in the eye, and quietly persuade them that they might be wrong. Even when the customer is always right, sometimes Rosalind can convince them they are wrong, when they are wrong, because she is tall. She can survive in a man's world, even when they are wrong, because she is tall. Proud Rosalind, rightly so.

She stands and looks at herself in the mirror, and this is what she sees:

Long legs, more than half her body height. It is a long rise of her eyes from the reflection of her feet to the reflection of her delta, and her legs are long. Her legs are pale and shapely. She does not see much sun in a tall city, but she carries her flesh well.

Rosalind's calves are shapely, her thighs divine. Firm curves, maybe not so tight but she is no longer twenty-two, so it doesn't matter.

There is a man in her kitchen who knows it doesn't matter. Because he knows what is between the divide of her legs, lightly browned with the darkness of her triangled hair.

She moves one foot one foot away from the other, to make a small gap at the top of her curving thighs. A gap framed by the soft curves of her creamy inside thighs, the skin so soft there, just like a baby's skin. So, so soft. He can sit forever before this softness, his finger a perpetual wonder at the softness there.

Rosalind lowers her hand between her legs, just one finger, her middle finger, oh God that is so intimate, to touch, an exploratory touch to the silken smooth lips there. She does not move the finger, does not slide, she just holds it there, affirming herself. Yes, her delicate skin there is still soft. Her outer lips hold her inner lips warm, and her finger is a reminder there.

Rosalind does not need to move her finger to know her female centre is there, for she knows it better from deep inside herself. She swells and aches and opens, for she knows a man loves her, and he is in her kitchen.

Strange to think that the clunk of pots and pans in the kitchen can make her womb ache for love, just as much as a still finger. But it has not been a still finger, for now the tip of her middle finger rests firm on the head of her clitoris. But Rosalind does not move the tip of that finger, for this night she knows his love is given in tarragon and basil, and a fresh sprig of parsley.

Her eyes look higher, and what does she see? The wonderful roundness of her belly, rounded and wide, and there are two creases, slightly rolled because she is no longer twenty-two. Her woman's flesh still carries the tight lines of her knickers, for she has worn them all day and they have only been off a minute, caressed down her legs by the gentle fingers of a man who must worry about the spaghetti, done in ten minutes or fifteen.

Rosie's bath water has been tested by his finger, and it is just right.

Hurry Rosalind, gaze upon that whorled centre of your belly, that your mother kissed when you were small, her belly still an empty ache where she carried you for so long, her heartbeat always a double beat above your head. And on that tiny whirl that your father kissed, his eyes a wonder at his tiny daughter.

Hurry Rosie, don't let the water get cold.

She holds both hands under her breasts, heavy and tired after a long day, the creases of her bra ridged around her full flesh still, for her tight bra has only dropped away from her body a minute ago, dropping to the bathroom floor thirty seconds ago. She knows that he will pick them up later and hold them tight to his nose, for the strong scent of her.

It's been a hot day, and she has beaded tiny trails of sweat where her garments gripped and were too tight. Rosalind holds her breasts, and offers them to her eyes, for his are in the kitchen showing his love with the bread and the red wine, and cannot see. But he is patient, he can wait. The bread must be buttered.

Her nipples are hidden in the palms of her hands. She holds her breasts to her chest, flattening the flesh and making it spill. Her hands are slim, and her breasts bigger. Rosalind needs a man's hands to carry their weight, but the palm of his hand is measuring out salt.

She puts her hand to the flush of red at the top of her chest, where the sun caught her. Her neck is long, and her head tilts, stretching one side of her neck. She would prefer his hand to be there, fingers caressed up her neck, but he carries a bottle to the table.

Rosalind looks at her mouth and is content. Her lips are full, her teeth straight and strong. She looks to her cheeks. They remind him of his mother's cheeks, and that is good, for no woman can ever replace a man's first woman, his mother who carried him, and kissed his belly when he was tiny and oh so small. Rosalind can kiss his belly, it's different now.

Hurry Rosie, look at your eyes. Your eyes are tired now, bloodshot slightly, a tiny droop. But even though she hides her eyes behind glasses, Sally knew. Sally knows Rosie's got a secret. Her eyes are soft and gentle, sometimes they open wide in wonder. Oh God, where's that touch?

Rosalind bunches her thick hair up in one hand, and steps into the bath, one foot and then the other. Still holding her hair above her head, she lowers her body into the bubbled water, and she is all hidden, and the heat soaks into her.

Rosalind puts her head back, grips the side of the bath with both hands and submerges herself. She holds her breath as long as she can, totally submerged, and the heat of the water seeps into her. Washing the day away.

Five minutes later Rosalind pulls herself from the bath and dries herself on the towel he brought from the tumble drier, warm on her skin.

"Darling, we've got ten minutes before the spaghetti is done. Go lie face down on the bed, and I'll rub in some moisturiser. You'll feel so much better."

Rosalind goes to the bedroom, and drops her tired body onto the bed. The warmth of the bath has made her drowsy, her eyes are heavy. Her hair is wet, so she pulls it up to one side, away from her head. She closes her eyes and waits, her beautiful body warm and blushed pale red from the heat of the bath.

With her eyes shut Rosalind hears this:

Silence in the room, nothing.

In the distance, down a corridor she can hear the bubbling of water on the stove, and the occasional hiss as the water trickles over the rim and falls to the blue gas flame, faintly hissing. Then, the slow sound of walking feet, he is coming up the corridor.

"Hi Rosie, tough day, honey? Dinner's in ten, can you wait?"

She's nearly asleep already, her bones so tired. She feels the weight of him, two dips on each side of her thighs, and the bed bumps, just a little. Another two drops of weight, up by her shoulders, he is straddling her now, but no flesh touches. She experimentally pushes her rump up a few inches, but still no flesh touches.

He must be kneeling above her, looking down on her curving body, the swell of her hips and her ripe, rounded ass. He must be looking down at her profile, sideways on the pillow, her arms stretched above her head. Her body feels so long, so long, so stretched out and long. She experimentally spreads her thighs apart, but can still feel no flesh. But there is a faint cooling on her hot asshole, hot and heavy from the soaking bath water.

Then, and God, he can be so slow, she feels a warm length of heat along the bottom of her back, but still no flesh touches. And then it does. All up and down and along her back, followed in no time at all by weight on the back of her thighs. He has dropped his entire weight all along her body, and right between the creased cheeks of her ass, her spreading rump, her hot grips of flesh, right over her centre there, is the hot poker heat of his long cock, sliding between her cheeks and up over the small of her back.

The heat radiates, and her entire spine is hot with the hot length of him, and Rosalind cannot tell where his cock ends and her flesh begins. And oh sweetness, her pussy flows, her sweet cunt flows, and her man starts to slowly slide up and down her body, the heat of him sliding up and down her back. At the top of her back and with each slide, the tops of her shoulders can feel the soft coiled hair of his chest.

Down along the back of her long thighs, Rosalind can feel the long length of his thighs, and the entire movement up and down her legs and body is so slow. Slow and regular and the great heat of him spreading from the centre of her back.

Rosie lies there, not moving an inch, she doesn't need to now, for he is all long, slow movement, his cock sliding now between her back and his belly, and the heat spreads and spreads and spreads, all up and down her spine, heating wide to the sides of her ribs and around to the sides of her belly, and hot hot hot up her spine.

Then there is shudder behind her, and the hot hot hot movement is now wet wet wet movement and his slide is longer, and he spills his seed over her wet wet wet, and between the heat of them, his wet wet wet becomes hotter hotter hotter on her skin, and they are slick and slow and sliding together.

And they stop. Rosalind experimentally pushes her rump up to him, to feel the pressing down of his belly. But he is away and gone.

"Here, let me rub the moisturiser into your skin."

And he did, rubbing his cream into her day-tired skin, soft and warm. 100% natural ingredients, far better than anything from a bottle.

"Wrap yourself in something warm, honey, I'll serve dinner."

And he did, and they ate and talked and drank a glass or two of wine.

"Did you bring them?" he asked.

Oh yes, Rosalind did, she brought the best.

Sally always knows when the girls, the women, the old ones, the young ones, the ones in between, Sally always knows when they have a man, a woman, a boy or a girl at home. Sally always knows.

She knows that one is never enough, two is too many. That's why Sally always knows exactly who is at home, because they always take just three, the women from Sally's office. One for you, one for me, and one to share.

And what Sally knows, and none of the women who work with her know, is that all the lovers, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends; they all have Sally's phone number in their phones.

"Sally," they will call up and say, "can you make sure she brings home three pieces tonight. I want to spoil her by making dinner."

And Sally knows, she always knows, because she makes the best cream pies.