Table Manners

"Something tasty in the kitchen. 8pm sharp." He had received her instruction by text message. He sat by the table and watched the digital readout on the oven advance the last few minutes before eight o'clock. No food in it or on the stove, no crockery set out.

Behind him she purred a welcome. He turned to see her framed in the doorway. Her hair tied back and wearing scarlet lipstick, she looked stunning as usual. She wore a 1950's inspired apron, pink and frilly.

"Like it?" she asked as she twirled around in front of him.

"Wow!" he breathed.

He thought the retro apron was cool and funky, but it was how she accessorised that blew him away. She was almost naked under the apron, black lace French knickers, black seamed stockings held up by a suspender belt, and black patent stiletto heels, four inches high.

Black and pink, his favourite colour combination; the lace and frills, the colours and her raw sexuality made his mouth water. She was not wearing a bra, the curve of her big soft breasts spilled out from the apron.

She said, "Well, I'm dressed for dinner!"

"What would you like me to wear?" he asked.

"Strip" she demanded "completely naked."

Hurriedly he pulled off his casual shirt and jeans. He was comfortable in his athletic body, and given the situation, happy to stand naked in front of her, his erect cock showing her how much he appreciated the effort she had made.

"What's for dinner?" he asked.

"You're the first course; I'm the second, and finishing off with an interesting combination."

"Sounds good," he commented, not exactly sure what was on the menu.

"Lie on the table," she instructed.

He did as requested; the industrial steel surface chilled his back and buttocks. He idly stroked his erection, enjoying the view as she bent over to reach into a dessert freezer. The knickers pulled themselves tight across her bottom. She caught him watching and gave a little wiggle.

"The cold makes my nipples erect," she teased.

She placed a bowl of home-made ice cream, on the table between his legs. She pushed the bowl up the table till the freezing ceramic shocked his thighs. He opened his legs wide in reaction, so she pushed the freezing surface against his genitals and he let out a yelp. She giggled playfully and turned to the stove to warm some chocolate sauce.

"Will there be some of your home made all American apple pie?" he asked.

She looked him squarely in the eye and reached out, wrapping her hand around his hard cock, grasping the shaft very firmly, just the way he liked her too.

"I expect you to provide the hot filling," she whispered hoarsely.

She stuck a desert spoon into the centre of the ice cream. Its handle stood erect and steely out of the bowl just like his hard cock. He hoped she would put his cock on her mouth more frequently than that spoon.

She stirred the sauce on the stove and then put the probe of a digital thermometer into it.

"Sixty nine degrees," she announced. "Perfect."

"Hot stuff," he said, feeling strangely at ease lying naked on the table like a joint of meat. She transferred the hot liquid from saucepan to pouring jug.

"Nice jugs," he said.

She ignored the poor puns; her mind had switched to serious seduction. She held the pouring jug over his chest.

"You're going to have to help me work off some calories later."

"With pleasure," he said.

"And I might smudge my lipstick but..."

Like the best French pâtissière, she drizzled thin lines of hot chocolate sauce across and down his chest. The warm liquid on his skin felt strange and sticky, it's viscosity stopping it from becoming a runny mess. She admired her decorating skills, and when he moved his hand to start rubbing the chocolate sauce into himself, she slapped his wrist.

"Aren't there better things you could be doing with your hand?"

He got the message quickly and slipped his hand up under the hem of her apron, stroking her thigh through the black seamed stocking.

She bent her body over him and began licking the lines of chocolate sauce. Moving her mouth over his nipple, she bit gently into him, he moaned at the combination of her tongue and teeth. His hand rose up her thigh above the material of her stocking; he stroked her soft skin and idly played with the mechanism of her suspenders strap.

She moved her mouth down his body, licking his taut stomach, flicking her tongue into his belly button where she had artistically pooled some chocolate surrounded by a swirl of sauce.

"This will definitely make a mess. If only I had something nearby to wipe you with."

She pulled away from him and turned around. With a wriggle she slipped the lacy French knickers down over her hips and let them drop to the floor. She picked them up and draped them on his chest.

"These are far too pretty to get covered in sticky goo," he said.

"They're already a bit messy."

He raised the knickers up to his nose and inhaled deeply. They smelled sweetly feminine, the unmistakable aroma of intense female arousal.

He slipped his hand further up her inner thighs and began stroking between her legs. She widened her stance to allow him better access to her pussy lips. She breathed deeply and enjoyed the sensation of his bony knuckles invading the soft folds if her most private place.

She pulled the spoon out of the bowl of ice cream and put it in her mouth.

"Mmmm perfect for my needs. Just the right consistency."

She dipped the spoon back into the ice cream and then ran it along the length of his penis, coated the underside of his erection. He shivered involuntarily.

"Don't worry, I'll warm you up," she cooed and covered the swollen head of his hard cock in ice cream.

"What flavour is that?" he asked.

"French vanilla, of course. Served just the way I like it."

She began licking the ice cream off the shaft of his cock, her hot breath and saliva a welcome contrast to the freezing cream. She sucked and nibbled on his throbbing cock. Sometimes she would eat a mouthful of ice cream and then return to pleasuring his cock between her cooled tongue and the roof of her mouth.

To return pleasure he pushed his fingers in between her legs, feeling the slippery moisture of her pussy lips. He wanted to look at her pussy as he fingered her, but the apron draped down over his wrist. He tried to reach for the apron strings but she forbid him, grabbing his wrist and guiding it back between her legs.

"Stroke my pussy!" she demanded between taking mouthfuls of his cock.

He thought he was close to orgasm and told her so. It was only polite to warn her since he was in danger of creating a choking hazard, delivering spoonfuls of his cum straight into the back of her throat.

She brought him back from the brink by spooning ice cream onto his swollen balls. The way she sucked it off them was exquisite. She only stopped sucking and licking him when she had to catch her breath, when the pleasure that he gave her with his fingers brought her to orgasm.

When she recovered her composure she said, "Second course, please."

She climbed up onto the table, a knee either side of his head. At last, her pussy in sight, hovering over him. She lowered herself down onto his mouth. Freshly shaved, she allowed him unimpeded access to her pussy lips. He ran his tongue along her moist groove. She tasted delicious, a subtle sweet but sharp taste, better than any exotic fruit that he had ever sampled. The taste of feminine sexuality could never be replicated by any chef. Every woman had her unique taste, but this delicacy could not even be approximated. He tongued her, sometimes rapidly and then with long slow licks, trying to match the standard of oral pleasure that she had given to him.

He found her clitoris, swollen and wanting to be licked gently. He swirled the tip of his tongue around it. She moaned with pleasure and encouraged him to continue. She teased his balls with her long manicured fingernails of one hand, and gripped his pulsing shaft tightly with the other.

They were locked together on the table, he completely naked, skin glistening with her saliva and traces of chocolate sauce and ice cream, his face was obscured by her thighs and the pink apron. She looked for all the world like a 1950's housewife, definitely not desperate, in fact being comprehensively satisfied. His expert tongue delivering waves of pleasure that rippled out to the tips of her toes inside the spiked patent heels.

She lost count of the orgasms she had received from his fingers and then his tongue. It was about time his throbbing cock was plugged into her. With only a little reluctance she eased herself off his face, stretching her legs back down onto the floor.

"Fuck me!" she demanded.

He lifted his body up off the table, ready and eager to penetrate her. She bent over it, resting on her elbows. Feet wide apart, bottom pushed out.

He stood behind her and let her reach between her legs and take hold of his throbbing cock. She eased the tip of it along the groove of her wet pussy lips, just to enjoy the sensation and to coat his cock in some extra lubrication, not that it was particularly necessary. His expert tongue action had made her dripping wet. With her open palm pressed against her vulva, she guided the head of his cock inside her. He teased her, sliding it in slowly, but right up until has balls brushed against her pussy lips. He took her by the hips and began pounding into her with a steady rhythm.

When he had established the pace of fucking her, he slid both hands up her body, stroking the exposed side swell of her breasts and then exploring under the material of the apron. She had a delicious, voluptuous figure. He weighed her full breasts, generous handful in any recipe. He kneaded them like soft warm erotic dough. He held them fully so that his fingertips touched above her breastbone. He cupped his hands under them and enjoyed their mass. He stroked their outer sides, the part of her that got noticed first when she was viewed from the side; those beautiful breasts that caused polite men to call her statuesque.

His cock pulsed and throbbed inside her. She tightened the muscles of her vaginal walls, gripping him greedily, not letting him get away from her until she was completely sated. His cock was like the sharpest knife cutting through her flesh to pierce her in the very marrow of her orgasm.

He watched the soft curves of her tender rump yield as his thighs repeatedly slapped against them, the power behind the force of his erection grinding into her sexual core. He wanted to release his cum into her. She had teased him with her wet searching tongue and now the hot wet walls of her pussy. She gasped an orgasm as he pinched both of her nipples. That was her thing, the icing on her cake.

She orgasmed with a guttural howl that sounded like it emanated from somewhere between middle Europe and middle Earth. She banged the table with her open palm, indicating for him to resume his seat on the table. She tipped the remaining chocolate sauce on his lap, and smoothed the dollop onto his thighs. She coated his balls and rubbed the coagulated goo into his shaft, already slick from her pussy juices.

She sucked his cock deep into her throat and bit down one last time on the base of it. It was his turn to emit an animal roar as he flooded her mouth with his semen. She opened her mouth and let him see the chocolate, her vaginal juice and his cum mixing together, coating her tongue. Its aroma evaporated up onto her olfactory receptors so that she could savour it fully. She kissed him deeply so that he could share the taste.

"Which do you prefer, cum or chocolate sauce?" he asked.

She swallowed hard and thought got a moment.

"I like it best when they're mixed together."

"There's a little bit of you in there too, just to give it added depth."

"Can we put it on the menu, chef?"

"I have doubts about supply and demand."

"I mean just when the restaurant critics come in."

"You will have to serve the plates up to them."

"It will be a pleasure watching those fat pigs getting a taste of your cock, after what they said last year about the standard of your cooking and my table service."

"It might help if you wear a shorter skirt too."

"Really? I was thinking of aprons and stockings for the new waitress uniform."

"We would have to change the restaurant's name. 'Vanilla' might be a little inappropriate."