Soul Journal

A new Saturday ritual that I am relishing. Pancakes with my new lover.

I stand at his kitchen island, wearing his slippers and a white v neck tee. He pours milk into a jug, watching my legs as he cracks the eggs. I reach over the bench, feeling my breasts swing loose inside the shirt, and pass him the flour. The freshly washed strawberries are heaped in a bowl next to me, and I bite one, licking the red juice as it dribbles over my fingers.

Butter into the pan. It sizzles, sliding around as he tilts it. He spoons a little batter into the pan, checks the heat, then turns and lifts me onto the bench. I gasp as my bare ass meets cool marble. He reaches for a strawberry, lifts my shirt, and circles it around my breast. My nipple hardens at his touch. He bites it, traces down my stomach, reaches my bits, and rubs my clitoris with the soft, moist red fruit. It’s cold and wet against the heat of my most sensitive skin.

A low moan escapes me and I arch my back, my hands resting on the bench behind me, inviting more. A seductive look, a lick of his lips as he drinks in my nudity in his kitchen, and he turns to flip the pancakes. They sizzle appreciatively, and I smell the butter and vanilla.

He picks up a large strawberry. I can feel my labia start to tingle.