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When I met him, like an arrow
Like a bird in the heart, like a sparrow
It's long past midnight, and you and Roger are alone in the kitchen.
The gas lamp placed not far from where you are does little to light up the space - it's how you prefer it, only fitting for being somewhere you shouldn't, doing something you shouldn't. It casts long shadows, contouring all the hung-up herbs drying, utensils lined up. All things that look harmless and familiar in daylight, now their shapely shadows seem scary, reminding you of walking through the forest at night with a lantern.
Closing your eyes only enriches the imagery instead of smudging it to a distant blur, but you can't keep them open even if you wish. It’s the way Roger kisses you breathless that has you focusing all your senses on him, you have no choice here. Holding onto his upper arms keeps your feet on the ground, but a single involuntary flexing of the muscles under the flesh sends you walking on air. He's not stupid; he knows the way you cling onto him, the way you press yourself close, it has nothing to do with trying to keep your balance. You're either trying to push your puffed-out chest more onto him, or maybe you're trying to get his bulge to press onto your upper belly.
Roger's hand is so big as it creeps past your neck and yet further up. It's positively scary how it's bigger than your whole face; if he pushes you back, you'll look like a puppy with a muzzle on…
Picturing yourself as something as cute and tiny, it makes you giggle to yourself, an incitement to do some naught. With his fingers in close proximity, of course you mind goes to popping them in your wet mouth. Even if it would be nothing to surprise him with - as you can remember well the way he's shoved them in your mouth before - you act upon your shameless need to provoke him.
Lips wrapping around his long middle digit, you feel the weight of it on your tongue; deep but short of where your gagging reflex is going to strike, something that comes with experience and, with Roger.
You meet Roger's gaze with your own, and you see a faint, mocking smile there, but one that adores you to death. You keep up your little act for a little longer, surely getting lost in the analogy for his cock more than he does, but you are having so much fun with it. Bare toe scuffing on the cold tile floor coquetishly, you try your best to ignore the pulse of your core calling for Roger's cock. You know damn well what it means, along with all those other calls of your body. Your loins are on fire; pussy so wet it threatens to leak down the inside of your thigh, walls contracting around nothing. You're positively ovulating.
You told yourself you'll keep things safe today - you'll please Roger to completion with your mouth and avoid anything risky. His thick fingers would suffice for soothing the emptiness inside you, and you'll fuck yourself on them if needed until your body stops begging you for the forbidden.
Then why is it that you lured Roger in here? Perhaps tucked in the shadows, you feel more courageous to play with fire.
All of a sudden, Roger captures your other hand and places it over his manhood. Heart threatening to jump out of your chest, you close your fingers around the fabric without thinking, craving to feel the shape of him. Thick, long, and painfully erect. You want every inch of him inside you, so deep it would finally scratch that maddening, invisible itch.
"Skirt up."
His voice breaks the silence, along with the light tap on your rear, and you can't not comply with it. Isn't this why you put that short skirt on in the first place? Your hormonal brain has set you up without you realizing; every choice calculated, yet somehow involuntary at the same time.
You all but feel the string of wetness stretching out when he pulls your panties down.
"I want to be inside you already."
His words rewire your thought process on the spot. It's something about the way he words it; putting his cock inside you is a matter of time and not of choice. He could play with you for hours, or he could skip to the main part right away if he wishes - then, when you're the same as him, why are you hesitating?
It's hardly the first time you've taken the risk, and… Roger too, knows that it's bound to happen, sooner or later.
His eyes are dark and murky with shadows when you're taking too long to turn your back to him and present your cunt. But his gaze is almost too self-assured, and suddenly it clicks - he knows, doesn't he? The Good Doctor probably knows your diagnosis.
Soon enough, you feel the blunt tip of his cock teasing and poking at the entrance of your pussy. Sucking on your bottom lip prevents you from whining, but you can do nothing about the lewd sounds ripped out of your throat once his cock's head catches inside. As much as your cunt asks for it, all soft and wet and accommodating, Roger's size manages to surprise your senses yet again. Getting used to it starts to sound like a myth, but you're not sure you ever want to say goodbye to that slightly burning stretch that turns into intense pleasure on its wake. Your eyes are wide open as you look down at your hands but you see nothing; they're unfocused and a little blurry with physiological tears. Your soul triumphs as nature wins. You let it have its way, releasing the painful hold of reason, and get lost in the feeling of Roger fucking you.
"Don't you worry about it. I'll take responsibility. I'll have you dressed in white as soon as you begin to show."
It takes you a second to realize what he's saying, but when you do, your whole body blushes. An overpowering sense of belonging.
"Your slightly protruding tummy will crush to dust the fantasies of the fools whose eyes linger long enough to notice. It will let them know you're all mine."
With no hope of giving him any kind of response other than desperate moans, you cum on the spot, surprising yourself with just how much his words stimulated that silly ovulating brain of yours.
The excessive wetness is now beaten to creaminess that sticks to your bodies, the noises growing even more obscene than before.
You will your tightly shut eyes to open again, trying to look past the pink-tinted fog and maybe turn to catch Roger's gaze. You need to see the man who fucks you into being his.
Instead, you notice that he has you bent over the stove this whole time, and you're inevitably distracted, just as Roger hits a spot inside you that puts you into a whole new trance. There's something about having your hands on the stovetop that signals danger to you, even if you know you're not going to burn. Being with Roger feels a little bit like this.
A sharp thrust aimed at that same sweet spot sends you to the heavens a second time, and your head is empty again, mouth falling open to spill all the moans reminiscent of his name. Like a mantra, you call out to him, and he knows damn well what you want.
"I'll give it to you, don't fret."
He sounds a little breathless himself, making you proud - he couldn't last too long this time, as if in a rush to fill you up. He's proven his stamina and endurance many times before, so you know the desperation is courageous.
After a couple more of those fast-paced, loud slaps of skin against skin, the sudden ceasing of the noise is telling. Roger stills, and with a grunt, dumps his load deep inside you. You feel it stuffing you further along with the delicious thickness of Roger's fully swollen cock, and for good measure, he fucks it nice and deep inside you with some finishing shallow thrusts.
Both the metaphorical and the literal heat ruling over you begin to dissipate. You feel so, so satisfied. Roger helps you straighten up from your stiff position and then lends you his chest to lean against as you catch your breath, knowing that your legs are reduced to jelly.
The kitchen is quiet again in the dark of the night, and the deep yellow lamplight seems so cozy now.
"Though, I'd like a red ribbon around your neck. Having you in white from head to toe will make you look a little too innocent - and you're not."
Lower lip puffing up in a pout, you look up at Roger. He grins. It’s a little surprising that his mind still lingers on thoughts about marriage, and it makes you feel a little ashamed since yours is still in the gutter. Though he remembers you best with bows in your hair, he seems to see past your attempts at coyness, drawing you in more mature colors, like that of cherries in spring.
He kisses your pouting mouth. It's almost cute, nothing like the passion-packed kisses you previously shared with him. It shifts the focus of your imagination again, the hormones playing with you. The softness of his gesture makes you crave for more stolen kisses over the stovetop - this time, not in the throes of passion, but in moments of domesticity. Of you cooking a meal on that stovetop. Maybe even a family meal. You just hope you're not too bad at using it…