A Girl on the Bus Pt. 08

Delilah took the towel from me and brushed her hair dry, her naked body dripping water onto the bath mat. Many women would have wrapped a towel around themselves and used another to dry their hair. Not Delilah. She stood in the middle of the bathroom floor and dried herself, head to foot, as if I wasn't there. I loved the way she tilted her head forward to make her hair drop, making it easier to dry with the towel. Her breasts dropped too, and swayed as her body moved. The puff of her nipples seemed fuller with the weight of her breasts, the nipples extended.

I remembered her words from the night of the storm: 'I don't often have a man in my house,' and thought she was so accustomed to being alone that it never occurred to her to hide. I was the same, often walking around my own home nude. I'd stand, sometimes, boiling the kettle for tea, quietly stroking my cock while I waited, simply because it felt so good. I wouldn't always be hard, but that heavy feeling, that weight... yes, that felt good.

I watched Delilah put her rings back on, a pair of small sleepers in her earlobes, and finally the little gold cross on its chain. It fell to its place in the shallow valley between her breasts, lying on that delicate spray of freckles. I'd counted twelve, and there was a larger heart shaped freckle on the inner curve of her breast, off by itself, like a star near a small constellation.

"There," she said, "I feel dressed now." She pointed to a thick dressing gown hanging on a hook on the back of the door. "Be an angel, hand me that gown." She took it and hid her delicious beauty from my eyes. "I don't always cover myself up when I'm alone..." Delilah looked me straight in the eye, "...but with you here, there's someone to tease."

She said it so matter of factly, I barely registered the words. Then I did. "I'd better cover myself up then, if we're going to play that game."

"Oh yes. You should." She handed me her lighter gown, the one that smelled of her skin and her perfume. "But first," she declared, "I shall cook."

We'd not set any rules, Delilah and I, but the flavour of our love making seemed to be look, don't touch. I grinned to myself, but she caught it. "What, Adam, you don't want me... to cook?" She laughed.

"I want to see what you'll do with that zucchini," I prompted.

She glanced down, and remembered. "Hmmm, we'll have to see about that." She paused. "It wouldn't be hot, like your rod."

"You dirty girl. You've thought about it already."

"Maaybe," she whispered slowly. "Maybe not." She winked, and I contemplated the vegetable's luck. "I did think chocolate for dessert," she added. "We both could have some of that."

"I'm beginning to think you don't need me at all, Delilah." A vision of her long fingers breaking off a long strip of chocolate from a jumbo block darted into my head. I pictured her licking her fingers. And me licking mine.

"Oh yes. I think I do." She revealed one beautifully curved breast from within her dressing gown. "It's so much better when someone's watching. Don't you think?"

"I don't know what you mean," I replied, just as slowly and deliberately hiding my body inside my gown, wrapping the cloth around and tying the sash into a simple knot.

"Be careful how you sit," said Delilah, moving ahead of me down the stairs. She looked over her shoulder. "Make sure the angle's right." So matter of fact, Delilah. The rules of our game were slowly falling into place. She liked to see flesh, too.

Down in the kitchen she was methodical, chopping and preparing the meal, making a sauce, slicing the mushrooms fine. She left the zucchini for last, leaving it on the cutting board next to a sharp knife. As she prepared the raw ingredients Delilah told me where the crockery and candlesticks were, and I laid two settings on a small table in a window nook.

On any other day I might have placed the settings on adjacent sides, so between courses we could lean in to each other and kiss. But in these instructed and fearful days, the words of the prime minister's twice weekly press briefing in my ears, I laid the places opposite each other. We could gaze into each other's eyes.

The bottle of wine I opened was better than the night of the storm, and I drank to Delilah's good health and she drank to mine. The wine, a Shiraz, was smooth, the taste like soft red velvet on my tongue. Delilah's flavour on my fingers would be smoother, but she was by the stove and too far away. Besides, we weren't touching, we were following the rules of the game.

"When would you like to eat?" she asked."I'll cheat, use the microwave for some things, so really, it's just the meat."

"You've not chopped the zucchini." I pointed to it with a small tilt of my glass, then took a small sip.

"I'm saving it," she replied.

"For a rainy day?"

She looked at me with her steady look, her lips slightly apart so I could see the white of her teeth. Her eyes creased with a smile. "It's not raining, Adam. I meant for later."

"How much later?" I asked.

"A few minutes, so it's freshly chopped for the pan."

"Oh, I see." But I didn't see at all. I sensed I was being toyed with, and wondered how that happened in a kitchen. Then, in a vivid flash, I remembered the remake of A Postman Always Rings Twice, with Jack Nicholson and Jessica Lange, where he swept the bread she was kneading from the kitchen table and her bare ass was covered in flour as he fucked her.

Fuck. My cock stirred at the the thought of Delilah leaning forward over the island bench, her feet wide apart. She'd look back at me with that certain look. I realised she was too young to know the movie. Did that matter?

Fuck me, Adam. Fuck me hard.

"Can you get me that pinafore, Adam, so I don't get oil spatters when I turn the meat over." She pointed to a hook near the fridge, then got a bottle of olive oil down from an alcove by the stove, placing it next to the chopping board and the sharp knife. And the zucchini she was saving till later. She unscrewed the bottle's cap.

I handed the pinny apron across to Delilah. It was one of those long ones, like a butcher's apron crossed with an overall, with a striped panel that would cover her breasts and a tie around the back. Or in her case...

I wasn't at all prepared for Delilah's next action, which was to strip off the dressing gown she was wearing and place it on the pinafore's hook. She stood, suddenly naked, the kitchen bench between us.

"What? What's the matter, Adam? You've seen me naked before. Don't you like me all naked and nude?" She knew damn well that I did. "I'm cooking, darling, I don't want to burn my skin with hot oil."

She was on fire, already burning.

Delilah placed the apron over her head and tied the cord around her waist. The top panel hid her breasts, but when she turned back to the stove her bare torso was long and slender, the curves of her bottom tight and precise, split down like a perfect peach, two faint hollows at the base of her spine like shadows. She placed the bowls with cut vegetables by the stove, bright reds and greens and white. She left the bottle of olive oil on the bench between us. That was odd. Wouldn't she need it to cook?

Delilah picked up the zucchini in one hand, circling it with her long fingers, reminding herself of its length and width no doubt; my cock in her mind, the cold length in her hand. She looked at it, then tapped her fingers on the knife handle. Sweet fuck, Delilah. My cock stirred with the impossible suggestion.

"Are you comfortable, Adam?" She stood looking at me, slowly turning the fake phallus in her hand. My cock moved against my thigh, connected by an invisible string to her slow turning fingers.

I pushed back my chair from the table, leaning back to see more of her, perhaps two or three metres away. I wanted to crawl towards her and look up. I took up my wine glass to fill my empty hands. I thickened with expectation and a hunger. Delilah's teasing was past showing long legs with her skirt riding up, and pulling her panties down in the supermarket. She was performing now, whereas up in the bathroom she was drying her hair.

"Good boy," she whispered in a low porn star voice. She giggled, then pulled herself together. "Ah, I know..."

Delilah slowly walked around the island bench, coming closer. If I reached out I could touch her, and if she reached out, she could touch me, just our fingertips touching. Delilah deliberately placed the green fake cock on the bench and pulled over the olive oil. The glass bottle hushed smooth with the faintest gliding sound on the granite top.

"Look, Adam, someone's a virgin," she said in her low husky voice. My prick stirred again. "It says so on the label."

Delilah turned away from me and in the clear space where her preparation had been, she leaned forward with one hand on the other side of the bench...

...and the other hand, fingers extended wide, on the curve of her hip. The pinafore cloth fell forward, down from the waist ties, falling away from her legs. I could see her breasts flattened on the bench and her perfect ass curved in front of me. Delilah place her feet apart on the floor, as she did in aisle three. The neat swells of her cunt lips were visible between her cheeks, two small mounds with a shallow crease in between. The firm globes of her backside spread wider with her stance, the darker pink bruise of her anus clearly visible.

My cock, now, was thick and hot against my thigh, moving over my skin. I wanted to kiss the heat of her asshole and see again the promise of her look when I'd mentioned butter. My cock swiftly hardened and moved on my thigh. I undid the sash on the dressing gown, and the cloth fell each side of my legs. My cock, freed from any restraint, swung up rigid against my gut.

Delilah looked backwards and saw me exposed. I heard her voice in my head: I like it when you get hard for me, Adam, just looking. With her eyes on my shaft, seeing every movement, every throb, every bounce, she eased the fingers of her right hand in under her belly and began to stroke the mounds of her pouting cunt, sliding two long fingers into the crease between the plump lips. She was glistening already as she spread herself for my eyes. She closed hers.

I left my cock alone, but it was rigid, hard up against my gut. The head was a deep rich red, darker than the rest of the shaft. I admired the transitions of my colours, then looked at hers.

I'd seen Delilah masturbate before, usually resting in my arms. She'd take me and drain me, and half an hour later she'd want more, before drifting into sleep. But, getting older, my recovery wasn't what it used to be, so she found it best to pleasure herself quickly, my cock semi-hard against her thigh or in the cleft of her bottom, her fingers sliding in our post-coital cream.

She'd come, often silently, her faster breath broken by little animal sighs from the back of her throat, her fingers stroking each side of her clit. She'd always nuzzle her lips to my neck and anoint me with her fingered cream and the lingering taste of our come. She'd hold my head to her breast while I sucked on a nipple. She touched herself easily, knowing her body so well.

But now, bent forward over the kitchen bench, she was different. Perhaps it was the blatant animal offering of her stance, maybe the different mood, the game; but whatever it was, this was a new Delilah. She was more vocal than ever before. As she played, teasing her lips apart to show me the folds of her sex, she began to urge words at me, inviting me, taunting me, displaying herself for my rapacious gaze.

"You like my firm ass, Adam, my slender thighs?" She ran fingers down her taut muscles, then back to her succulent cunt. "Fuck me baby, make me moan." Her hand gripped the edge of the bench, she'd flickered past her sensitive spot, found her clitoris, rubbed it.

"Grip you tight when you fuck me, baby, push back so you fill me, ooo yes, my angel." Her fingers spread her lips wider so I could see the red flesh inside her labia, moisture shining. "I want that cock of yours, all those inches inside me." Delilah looked back at me and her eyes were dark. "Play with yourself, Adam. Show me that cock."

I did as commanded, cupping one hand over my tight balls, pulling them down, making the shaft look longer. My other hand gently stroked up over the head, finding the delicate spot where Delilah would torture me, her fingertips clever and slow when I wanted them firmer and fast. She licked her lips, the way she did before she tongued me.

Delillah picked up the zucchini and teased it to the entrance of her sex. One or two exploratory pushes later, she pulled it out, not satisfied. She reached for the bottle of oil and poured a capful into her hand. Holding the oiled palm up to her sliding lips, Delilah again manoeuvred the zucch back into place, only this time she slicked the oil in a golden mess over her flesh and the green cock. It was lubed enough now to push it three or four inches in.

"Deep enough..." She held her voice low and sexy, and pushed the vegetable further in. I saw her leg quiver, a sign of her arousal. "It's not the same without your thrusting rod, your beautiful cock." She fucked herself with it anyway.

"It looks hot, baby, fucking incredible." I was stroking my rod slowly, slower than her thrusts. It felt all porny, seeing Delilah with a green shaft in her cunt, but in that moment it didn't matter. She looked amazing and seemed to be enjoying the strange sensation.

Then she straightened herself up and turned to face me, half the vegetable lewdly pointing towards me like her own green, alien prick. She had the smooth end inside her, so the head of her silly cock monster was gnarled and twisted, not really sexy at all.

She looked down at herself and something must have triggered in her a sense of the absurd. She gripped the vege cock in her hand, juggled it some, then slid it in and out. Her cream glistened on the green oiled flesh inside her. As she did so she giggled. "Adam, you like Sveta, Russian girl with vegetable prick? I don't need man any more." She lapsed into a pastiche of her native accent. "I fuck marrow, next time."

Delilah eased the zucch from her body and started laughing with the silliness of it all. "Is porn star, baby, you like?"

"Oh, Sveta, hot Russian slut. Is dirty girl, da?"

"Da," she replied, then placed the zucchini onto the cutting board. Quite calmly, Delilah picked up the knife and quickly cut the vegetable into serving size pieces. Jesus fuck, Delilah! I half expected blood to spill out from the vegetable's flesh where she'd cut it, where she'd fucked it.

"What is this matter, Adam? You don't like it, this sharp knife?" Sveta Delilah grinned at me, pleased with the reaction she'd got. "Strong Adam, is quieter now, da? Crazy woman, what she do next?"

Then like a switch, Delilah was back in the kitchen, the porno Sveta Delilah gone. I pulled my dressing gown up around me, astonished at the steel-like hardness of my prick. She'd fucking got me, that last trick with the knife. The little rush of adrenaline passed, my heart beating faster. My cock was rigid, almost a young man's ache; the head, blood red. I was burning.

Delilah looked at me, an eyebrow raised in a silent enquiry.

"You're wicked, Delilah, you know that?" I was fine and needed her to know. In truth, the shock of the knife was more arousing than the porno pastiche. We'd both known that was coming, from the moment she selected its replica length on the grocery shelf. But Delilah... she'd set up the scene with the knife quite deliberately. I wondered if she had somewhere darker to take me.

She looked at me with her quiet appraisal, and in that moment a chill thrilled through me. An instant image of a bead of scarlet blood on pale skin staggered me like an hallucination. Hers or mine? I wanted to know.

Something must have shown on my face. "Later, Adam. Not now. We're not ready."

I nodded. I sure as hell wasn't. But we'd agreed something, Delilah and I, seen a red line to cross, somewhere up ahead of us. I thought of white snow, two trails of footprints behind us, walking side by side.

"Ten minutes, to do the meat? I can start cooking, now that we've had our entrée." She changed the subject completely. I didn't know if I was relieved or frustrated.

"Yes, that sounds wonderful. More wine?"

It was slightly surreal, as the kitchen returned to normal, the intensity gone, quickly dissipating. But I could smell my arousal as well as Delilah's and knew something had happened, a line on the floor seen but not crossed. I stood and went to where she'd been standing. She was on the other side of the bench, the pinafore apron straightened. A blaze of arousal was on her throat and I could see hard nipples under those butcher's stripes.

I cupped my balls to scent my palm with heat from the core of my body. I offered my hand to Delilah and she took it, breathing me in deeply, rubbing my palm on her cheek.

"Thank you," she said, and the Delilah I was getting to know was back, her usual low husky voice connecting straight to my blood. The play acting was gone, but there was further to go now.

My eyes creased in a warm smile. "Thank you, Delilah. For inviting me home."

I looked down at the bench. The cap for the olive oil was near the edge so I picked it up and placed it loose on the bottle, then slid it closer to Delilah. She'd need it for cooking. I straightened the knife on the cutting board, aligning it to the edge with my finger. She slid the board towards herself, turning the knife around one-hundred and eighty degrees, so the tip of the blade pointed at her.

"Your fingers, Delilah, they're covered in oil. You should rinse them, or you'll drop the pan."

She laughed, a low chuckle, and the quiet intensity was finally broken. "You're right. I'll use soap." She winked.

I picked my wine glass up and returned to the table, my cock's heaviness and heat familiar on my thigh. I watched Delilah at the stove, her gorgeous bare ass taut with just the thin cords of the apron around her waist and the twisted blue strap about her neck.

As she moved and turned, cooking the meal, I could see a glisten on one firm cheek where she'd wiped her fingers. It shone and caught the overhead light, a glisten of gold on her skin. I smiled to myself; she didn't see me. Was it the shine of oil on Delilah's bum, or the shine of her juice? It didn't matter, because it caught the light and shone on her skin.

"There, done,"Delilah announced. She served the food onto plates, then took the pinafore off, standing simply, superbly, naked in the kitchen. The little gold cross between her breasts caught the light. She reached for her dressing gown and hid her body. That was okay, mine was hidden too.

I took the plates to the table. In the centre of it I'd placed a vase and from somewhere found a single red rose. From her garden, I guessed, cut with other flowers. Delilah leaned forward to smell it, at the same time running her fingers over the cheek she'd placed in the palm of my scented hand.

"What a lovely setting, Adam. Thank you."

We sat, and I was quietly astonished as Delilah mouthed a silent prayer. I'd never registered her do that before. I didn't say a word, but watched her mouth as she finished, ámen.

We ate slowly, savouring the meal, which was superbly cooked. The medallions of meat were unbelievably tender, almost melting in my mouth, and the zucchini was succulent and soft, its skin seared the faintest gold with Delilah's juice.

We made small talk, Delilah and I, nothing of consequence, nothing important. Halfway through the meal I felt her foot edge against mine. Nothing was said until the end of the meal, when she raised her foot between my legs and found my cock. She looked at me with a tiny wicked smile as I grew hard.