Mind Caviar Fiction

Claira Kennedy is currently enjoying the last days of a yearlong stretch of gainful unemployment. She has had several stories accepted for publication but, for various and often confounding reasons, they never saw the light of the page. Mind Caviar is pleased to finally bring Ms. Kennedy's work to a new audience.

Email Claira Kennedy.

The Staff of Life

He sees, fore and most, her ass dancing double time attendence to her hands as she kneads. He remembers the first time he saw her, and her ass, and the strong impression both made, walking away. How he later told her it was her siren’s call. Long black dreads lay and play along her back.

“What kind of bread are you making?” he asks, standing in a doorway occupado with body and upstretched arms and pose.

When she turns to answer him he sees a face loving, lovely, and loved. Nut-brown, rich with smile, and comely. She has no doubt that his pose is specific in its intent to entice. The bottom buttons of his shirt are undone revealing dark hairs sprinkled on a pleasure path of brown skin from the cradle of his navel to what she craves hidden behind zipped jeans. His large hands hang loosely, his hips dangle in a flirtatous tilt.

“Baguettes. French bread, my dear,” she says over her shoulder, dusting flour onto the still sticky dough.

He walks over to stand behind her. Close enough to touch, but far enough away to take in the sights..

“I guess you’ve already added the spunk?” he asks.

“The spunk?”

“That funky, foamy stuff.”

“That’s the starter, the yeast. And even if it came out of your dick, I’m not taking a mouthful of that stuff,” she says. “It’s full of life. Just like spunk. That what makes the magic.

"You put a lot of effort into getting it to come out just right,” he says.

 “Baby, you get my attention all the time, it’s me and the dough for another five minutes. I can’t leave it, it’s almost there,” she says in mock irritation, returning to the task at hand, pushing the heels of her hands into the fleshy mass and pulling back again. “You don’t just touch it, you feel it."

 “What’s it feeling now?”  

“Actually, it feels like your cock. When you’re almost ready. Just a little more. Like it wants a little more flour, a touch. This is sort of a personal time. Could you maybe…”

 “You’re humping the table. Your ass is wiggling. And I know what your hands can do. Remember, I know you, girl. There’s even a kind of sex-funk smell. You’re making something to fill you up. I like to watch.” 

Her hips add an unintended twist to her motions spurred by a twitch in her pussy. A hunger pang?

 “Now that you mention it, I don’t think the shape is a coincidence. Loaves, I mean. Long, hard, and brown.”

 “But what about those ridges on top?” he asks.

 “For her pleasure,” she smiles.

 “Baby, I love your dirty, dirty mind.” Wrapping his hands around her waist and his lips around the crook of her neck.

 “But before anything really starts to happen I’ve got tease it a little, get a rise out of it.” She rubs her ass a sideways swipe against the front of his pants and against his own rising mound, then she twists away from his grabbing hands. Quickly she oils a bowl, places the dough into it, covers it with a clean kitchen towel, and places it into the oven.

She turns toward him with oily hands in the air, “Your turn. Pull your pants down.”

He grins and decides on a tease of his own, ever so slowly undoing his belt. Taking his time and his pleasure watching her reactions, smelling her response. The belt undone, he reaches a thumb inside his pants as he opens the top button. He sighs with release as the zipper slides down. With nothing between the denim and his own skin, his dick frees itself against his belly.

“Come and get it.”

She needs no prodding, at least not yet, and steps toward him. As they kiss she wrings his dick from the root to the tip with oiled hand and fingers tightening the circle as they reach the tip. She squeezes out a gasp from his open mouth. He steadies himself with a hand on the counter and pumps his hips, his cock into her hand.

She watches and remembers the last time she had him inside her, the last time she’d taken him into her mouth, and never with a view like this-- able to watch the man at his pleasure and its source.

 His knees are bent to better angle himself - his whole self is his cock - into her clutch. Head thrown back, neck naked and exposed, groans, hisses and sighs escape his upturned mouth. His lips are pursed then open in turn.

 A bit of juice leaks from the slit of his dick. She looks down at it and imagines her lips sucking it out of him, salty cum tang on her tongue, down her throat with his hard cock following.  

No time to act on it, he thrusts at her hard and takes her free hand into his, two hands on him now, and presses her fingers into the uncovered areas of his cock.

 Her fingers are pressed hard against the underside. She feels a vein smoothed flat against the pressure as the blood races, pulses through it all the same.  

She needs to feel him somewhere other than her hand. She needs more, and pulls up her shirt, pushes her body against his. Between them, what part of his pre-cum and oil slick cock isn’t in their coupled hands scuds between their bellies. Looking into his face she sees not desire, but demand.

 “Now. Now!” he yells, one last push, one last thrust between lust and body and madness, he empties between them and upon the countertop.

 “Baby,” he says leaning back, “you got to make bread more often.”

 “You know, there’s a second rise. A second coming.”

 She smiles, leans back next to him, and wonders how sperm would work in starter.

Copyright  ©  2003 Claira Kennedy. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.

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