Dinner And A Movie 12

"We'll do dinner and a movie tonight," he said not long after lunch as he walked through the living room, where she was lounging on the couch, knees curled under her.

Dimples, a little squirm. This was a regular ritual for them, actually a weekend evening that started with feeding and evolved into a series of rituals, each building on the other.

She waited for more. Usually, he dictated the menu, but sometimes he asked her for suggestions and they'd discuss ideas. He chose.

"Braised shallot confit, grilled pancetta-wrapped asparagus, and slow-cooked hoisin pork with green onions," he said. "It's the Marco Polo menu - Italy meets Asia."

Sometimes they shopped together, the electricity barely contained. He had this way of slipping behind her as they were choosing produce and she'd find herself wet, wanting, hours before the meal. Other times, he gave her a list. That's what he did today. Still, she flushed.

"Now about the movie," he said. This, almost always involved a discussion followed by his choosing.

He waited. "Good Will Hunting?" she said.

"Groundhog Day?"

"Buckaroo Bonzai?" he said. "Man on a Wire?"

"Red?" she suggested.

"White?"

"Blue?'

He smiled. "Good idea. We should see the colors trilogy some time, but I'm not up for subtitles tonight."

"Good Will Hunting" is it."

They almost always cooked together, starting about 6, taking their time.

She'd guessed at her attire the first time and guessed correctly. She wore a fitted T-shirt and a skirt. He preferred the skirt a little shorter, knee-length or less, but didn't mind long. She was always freshly groomed; that was a weekly ritual. Sometimes he shaved her on Friday night, tying her up and taking his time. When he didn't, she shaved on Saturday mornings in the shower.

As he explained early on, he liked the idea of having instant, easy access. And he liked the idea of her knowing he had instant, easy access. Anytime.

So as he was helping her unload the groceries, he was also helping himself to her body. Inevitably, he'd come up behind her, his breath on her nape below her ponytail and reach his hand past the waistband of her skirt, pausing to warm it, and then cupping her pussy, his pussy.

He didn't ignore her tits, either, and he indulged his fondness for cupping them and then pinching her nipples hard, hard enough to make her knees buckle and her pussy even wetter.

He was clear: that was his goal. He wanted her wet from the time they started working in the kitchen. And, yes, he was hard, too. She'd slip a hand down, sometimes into his shorts, sometimes just stroking the outside of them. He enjoyed the feel of her hand stroking his cock through the soft fabric and he told her so.

There wasn't much counter work to do this day, just trim the shallots, break the tough ends off the asparagus, and sear the pork roast, which he did.

As the shallots braised, they wandered outside, where he started the grill and couldn't resist running his hands over her body, sliding them down her sides, to her middle, gathering her skirt, exposing her, and then running them up her front to cup her breasts, cliched, but effective.

The details changed with every dinner and a movie night. But some things happened every time. They ate well. She would feed him the appetizer (or appetizers). She would suck his cock not long after. He would fuck her. He would fuck her hard, rough, sometimes more than once usually after turning her ass brilliant red. He would fuck her in different places.

Sometimes in the mouth. Sometimes in the pussy. Sometimes in the ass.

Those rituals usually happened in that order, feeding, sucking, fucking. There were times he would decide to change them, decide he needed something now. The kitchen and nearby dining room offered plenty of props. On these nights, she made sure to wear a ponytail a little higher on her head, easier to grab and control her.

It was an intellectual dance as well as a physical one. He directed the play, but considered her needs, tried to read her, but also paid attention to his own cravings that weekend. It was an intricate set of steps, a dance, and he laughed to himself that all this thought, all this deliberation led up to creating something urgent, primal.

So there were times he took her in the middle of cooking, without waiting for her to feed him and suck him. It almost always started with his hand slipping up the back of her neck and grabbing a fistful of pony. He wasn't shy about it; he wasn't soft about it. He took it hard, surely, and forced her where he wanted her. Sometimes bending her over the counter, so she could brace herself with her hands, and spreading her feet and just fucking her from behind, his hand in her hair, holding her there, steady, while his balls slammed against her ass and his cock made her pussy a quivering mess.

The kitchen offered props, too. Once he pulled a big wooden spatula out of the holder on the counter and paddled her with it until she begged for completion, begged for his cock.

Another time he pulled her into the dining room by her hair, pushed her over the table, and, with one hand firmly in her hair, let her have it, spanking her again and again and again until the tears flowed and she finally, sussurated, "pleeeaze." And then, "please...don't...stop."

He didn't, driving his cock into her from behind, driving her up onto the table on her chest, taking her legs in his arms, holding them up so he could piston away at her until his cum filled her open, sopping pussy.

This afternoon, though, he let the feeling build as they waited for the appetizers to finish, a playlist of favorites from Jackson Browne to Hem to Chic Gamine pouring out of the wireless speakers. The pork roast would take three hours. They often arranged the meal that way. Appetizers before the movie, then the main course after the movie and after making love.

The shallots finished, a jammy, aromatic, deliciously sensual dish made dramatic by the pyrotechnics of adding cognac. The asparagus required only minutes on the grill. He put the spears on a pottery plate. She dished the shallots into a small bowl and arranged bruschetta and goat cheese slices around the sides. They padded into the living room to sit on the couch. Now, it was her turn. Though they'd started with her feeding him, they'd learned over time that she needed to take a bite first. So he watched as she held the asparagus between her slender fingers, fingers he found so sensual and delicious just the sight of them aroused him, and took a bite, slowly enjoying the entire spear, playing with her tongue at one point along its length. Then she tried the shallot confit on the bruschetta with a small bit of goat cheese. Her murmur let him know what pleasure awaited.

She took another spear and slowly fed it to him, holding the end as he took a bite and savored the sweetness of the vegetable and the salty succulence of the prosciutto. Her fingertips grazed his lips as she did and they both smiled. The play was familiar; the details made it new each week.

Then it was the bruschetta, the goat cheese, and the confit. They savored this time, the feeding, and sharing. She fed him more, the fireplace flickering.

When he reached over and slid his hand into the hair pulled taut at the base of her nape, leading into the ponytail, it was time. Time for her to suck his cock. There were variations on this, too. Sometimes, often, really, he just said. "Suck."

Other times, he told her to finger herself as she sucked. He liked keeping her wet. Once, when they had been feeding for a long time, their arousal beyond control, he reached into the end table drawer and pulled out a dildo, a beautiful glass dildo, and forced her onto her back on the couch where she began sucking him, knees on either side of her head, until he started fucking her mouth..."Fuck yourself as I fuck your mouth," he told her and she complied. When he came hard and warm and luscious in her mouth, she gushed over the dildo, rocking with the orgasmic wave.

But this time he just held her hair and she knew what to do next, having been told many times before. She stood, stepped out of her skirt and then pulled her top over her head. He liked her naked while she sucked, enjoying the reaction of her body, the smoothness of her skin. She knelt down in front of him as he sat on the couch and reached up to pull his shorts off his legs, sliding them down, her gaze never leaving his hard cock.

"Trace your name on my shaft with your tongue, then lick my balls tenderly," he instructed. "Then take me into your mouth, wet my cock, and stroke it with your hand before stroking and sucking me dry."

She smiled and immediately went down on him. His hand found its way into her hair, stroking, fingers tender, as she used her tongue along his shaft. He savored this and sat back, full present, fully enjoying the pleasure of her touch. Only as he got close, only as she drew him to climax, did he lean forward and take her more firmly by the hair, shuddering just a little, before release, pumping her full, spasming. She milked the last bit gently from his cock, taking her time. He gave himself, fully in the moment, but also enjoying the effect of his orgasm on her, the hard, hard nipples, the flush on her face.

She cleaned him up with her tongue, then accepted his hand pulling her up alongside him on the couch, where they snuggled under the comforter. Eventually, she arose to stoke the fire while he started the movie. They slipped down onto the huge, couch, her back nestled into his front to watch the movie.

They kept up a running commentary about the characters, about how well the movie had aged, about the choices in life. As time progressed, she slipped down, nesting her head in his lap and suckling his soft cock. As she did, he came to life, and the reaction sent her fingers to her pussy, still slick with the arousal of the day. This was usual, his request. He'd gotten a couch - and a huge beanbag - that allowed them to lay parallel, their bodies entwined, her lips playing with his cock as she made slow paths up and down her pussy lips with her fingers, eventually dipping in a finger. Occasionally, he would tell her to take a taste, sometimes share one with him. This kept them in a state of semi-arousal throughout the latter portion of the movie.

Near the movie's end, he pulled her up to him, pressed his knees together, and had her lower herself onto his hard cock, keeping just enough motion to slip his cock halfway in and out. His hands reached around and he kneaded, then pulled, and finally pinched her breasts and nipples. Hard. And his tongue traced a line along the smooth skin below her hairline before eventually sliding down to the top of her shoulder and biting. These bites left marks, marks that made her smile days later.

They shared their emotions as easily and comfortably as they shared their passions so by the end of "Good Will Hunting" they were bawling together, something that made each of them even more aroused. She slid up and down on his cock, barely able to contain herself, as the credits rolled. His hand reached up behind her head and pushed her onto the carpet in front of the fireplace.

His cock slid out of her. Without prompting, she raised her ass in the air and dropped her head onto a triangle formed by her hands, one over the other, and her shoulders. And she waited. His first touch was rough, a hand cupping her pussy, slipping two fingers in. A growl. Yes, she was beyond wet now. He finger fucked her a little, his body looming over her, before withdrawing his slick fingers and spreading her arousal over both her cheeks, slick, warm, suggestive.

She hadn't been spanked in days. Her brain twitched with the craving. Her ass raised higher, begging. He didn't disappoint. The first blow was harsh, the sound sharp; she could feel the imprint, the red imprint of each of his fingers across her right cheek. She winced and whimpered, her sign she was enjoying it. The left cheek was next. Again, the anticipation, the sound ringing between them. Then the slap of his hand, raking across both cheeks, before a backhand, a hard backhand with his nails.

As his pace increased, so did her arousal and her moaning. Her eyes moistened. She began vocalizing..."pleeeeze..." "please..." He'd learned to gauge her. At just the right moment, he slipped behind her, both hands on her hips. She paused, looking back, eyes wide. He reached under and spread some of her juice on his hard cock. And then he slid into her ass, easy, slow, enjoying every bit of her welcoming tightness.

They were both so aroused it wasn't long after he started pumping her hard, pulling on her hips to drag her back against him as he drove forward, burying his cock. He began to moan, growl. Her hands slipped behind her and he grabbed her wrists with each hand, pulling her towards him each stroke of his cock. Pulling and pounding, pulling and pounding.

She groaned with painful pleasure, "pleeeze...pleeeeze" which only made him take her harder until he heard her moan, practically whisper, "please, suhhhhhh" and with that he bucked and came hard into her, filling her hole. Her fingers, playing with her pussy, fucking her from that side, were covered with her cum.

Eventually, they arose and slipped the roast out of the oven, naked in the kitchen. They they slid into a quick, hot shower that featured each tenderly washing the other. They took their time, returning to carve the pork and make some quick polenta before their late-night picnic in front of the fireplace where, as usual, the conversation rambled from movies to music, from building a life well lived to exploring their boundless sexual horizons.

After a few fingers of bourbon, they collapsed on the comforter, falling asleep, entwined, as the last flames flickered.