Making Dinner with You

In the midst of a normal evening,
while chatting
and sipping martinis
and cutting veggies for dinner,
you suddenly moved behind me.
And I closed my eyes.
And I waited
for you to hurt me.
But you didn’t.
Yet.
You slowly slid
both your hands
up into my hair.
Pulled it away from my neck.
And began to nibble.
And lick.
And suck.
And while I was still
shivering
you skimmed your hands
down my body and
up under my shirt.
And found my naked nipples.
And pinched them.
Hard.
And then one hand
found its way back
to the nape of my neck.
And your fingers tangled in my hair.
And you turned my head to the side.
And you kissed me.
And I tried to pull away.
And you held me tighter.
And you said
No.
Come here.
Come.
Here.
And I did.
And you kissed me again.
And it was gentle,
and sweet,
and I felt it
in my knees.
And my toes.
And my stomach.
And my cunt.
And I needed
to hold onto
the kitchen counter.
And when you stepped away
from my body
I groaned
and you chuckled
and I knew
you weren’t
done with me
yet.
And then your voice
was in my ear.
Why did you stop?
You’re supposed to be
cutting vegetables for dinner.
Keep going.
And I sighed
and shook my head.
And then your hands were
on me
again,
and not gently,
and you said,
Keep.
Going.
So I did.
And somehow
I managed to get
dinner on the table
without losing any fingers.
And when your wife walked in
I handed her a martini
and she said,
thank you for making dinner,
Sweetie.
and I said
in complete honesty
while you smirked at me
from behind her,
You don’t need to thank me,
Honey.
The pleasure
was all
mine.