We stand in the kitchen.
I'm baking bread for our meal tonight.
"Honey, would you like some help?" you ask.
"Well, dear, I'm almost done. I just have to knead the dough and let it rise... though you are welcome to give me a hand if you'd like..."
My hands are covered in flour, and they knead gently, forming intricate patterns in the unbaked dough. I move to the side to let you in...
Your hands thrust into the dough, hard at first then gently becoming more precise. Such big hands you have, I think, flashing back to some childhood fairy tale. The better to... you with my dear... Our hands work in unison, pumping the dough into what we desire of it. Your hands probe the dough as you experience it for the first time, and I find myself becoming increasingly aroused knowing exactly what those hands of yours can do...
You are growing hotter as well; I know your eyes are watching my heaving chest, so I heave more for effect. Your pulse quickens. Each time our hands touch they are so bare, yet partially hidden by the warm, sticky dough. I must have you...
You feel the same.
"The dough looks good... so good... " you said in a voice laced with sinful desire.
"Oh God, I can't wait to taste it," I respond, shortening the gap between our bodies to mere inches. The passion jumps like electricity between two live wires...
Knowing how I love to be teased, you ask, "what does the recipe say now?"
Winking, I respond, "lie in a warm place and watch it rise."
Our kitchen floor is hot enough, I suppose, for it seems to rise quite quickly.
I lie on the floor, lightly floured at your request, and you grease my body with the same stick of butter we used for the pan. Your fingers, now expert from kneading, tease my warm skin. As if trying to absorb the wetness, you sprinkle more flour on my skin and probe me. Your hands, though floured, are wet themselves, and you have risen to a beautiful swell.
I taste myself upon your tongue, mingled with culinary staples. I am wet from your mouth and sweat. You slide inside me easily, both from the butter and my natural lubrication. Deeply your muscle probes, while your floured hands knead my skin in an erotic display, faster...
Our bodies, like baking bread, grow hotter... and now a carnal urge has mixed with our original desires. I want you; I need you. I have your heart, and your soul... I have the ability to make you rise with the mere suggestion of an opportunity...
After completing our bare baking lesson, you offer your hand to lift me from our floured, greased kitchen floor. We dust off the white powder that clings to each other's bodies, while secretly smiling at the absurdity of our actions...
Basking in the afterglow, I smile at you.
"We should bake like this more often."
