Choreplay

Sheridan had been suspicious from the moment she heard David's voice on the other end of the phone. "I'm coming over in fifteen minutes. Don't ask questions, don't argue. Trust me," he'd said. Worse still, he had used that damned devilish tone of his which, in the past, had caused her to make several poor decisions, none of which she regretted.

Now, she was standing in shock at her front door. He wasn't holding flowers, but instead, three full grocery bags. He brushed past her with just a quick peck on the cheek and was into the kitchen before she could find the breath to say hello.

"I'm making dinner for you," he announced. "On two conditions: one, you open that bottle of cabernet in the bag over there and pour us both glasses. Two, you do the dishes afterwards."

She tried to hide her amazement and recover some poise. "Well, I don't know... it depends on what you're making," she teased back. She pulled the cork with practiced ease and poured two glasses. Then, she announced with as imperious a tone as she could manage, "I'm going upstairs to dress. When I return, you shall serve dinner, Jeeves."

Sheridan stood in her bedroom and thought about the situation. She knew he was up to something and she needed to plan her counterattack. First, she showered quickly, concerned he might show up in the bathroom and try to circumvent dinner. He didn't. Next, she pulled out her best bra and matching panties. The bra fit her like her own skin and enhanced - just enough - her cleavage. Then, she slipped into a soft floral print dress that displayed that cleavage like grapes on a vine. Finally came the coup de grace, her own body lotion mix. Besides its intoxicating scent, it also tasted like strawberries. She smoothed some on her wrists, neck and breasts, then down her stomach and between her thighs. "That guy won't be able to focus on anything but me," she smirked to herself. "He's toast." She strolled down the stairs barefoot, revealing herself slowly to him.

"You're stunning!" David exclaimed as she descended the stairs.

"I'm hungry," she replied trying to be aloof. Still, in spite of herself, she blushed at his enthusiasm. The flush warmed her cheeks and her upper chest glowed with a subtle redness.

He moved toward her and began to circle his arm around her waist, breathing her in.

"We could skip dinner," he whispered, his voice husky and playful.

"Oh, no you don't!" She wriggled away, laughing through a smug grin. "You made a promise and I'm still hungry." She was surprised he didn't look disappointed. Instead, his look seemed mischievous, almost...evil, she thought.

"Well, we'll start with a small salad. Then, we'll move on to marinated lamb, new potatoes, and asparagus. More wine?" He filled her glass without waiting for a reply.

"Not bad...for a man," she remarked, trying to be testy. "But, what about dessert? And don't say that I'M dessert. I want ALL the courses."

"Of course there's dessert. Strawberries and cream!"

Dinner was a complete liquefaction of the senses for them both. She tasted the sight of his strong hands along with the spices in the lamb. Her voice inspired the wine for him and the dessert seduced him. And though they sparred like matched foils throughout the conversation, neither one really remembering what was said.

By the time they had shared the last strawberry, Sheridan had abandoned her first idea of making out in the living room. She wanted him in her bed. Immediately. She wanted to feel his hands maul her, his lips taste her, his weight crush her. And she wanted his cock inside her. She stood, took his hand in one fluid motion, and pulled him toward the stairs.

But, much to her surprise, he resisted. "You have work to do, young lady. The dishes, remember?" he chided.

"They'll wait. Now, I want you." There was no feigned haughtiness in her voice any longer.

"Oh, no, Miss Sheridan. Work before play. You promised, my dear." There was that grin again. David tugged her over to the sink, turned on the water, and squirted in green detergent, piling in dishes, glasses and silverware.

Sheridan's lust was draining fast. She felt rejected, frustrated, and just plain pissed off. This was not going according to her plan. She grabbed a sponge and attacked a dish, banging it loudly into the drying rack. "When this is over...", she groused to herself. She still planned on tasting his cock, but now she planned to use her teeth.

With the sound of the clanking dish, David was behind her in a flash. He pressed his chest into her shoulders, trapping her buttocks against the counter with his hips. He put his arms around her and grasped her hands.

"Gently, gently! Take your time," he commanded softly in her ear, his warm breath lifting the hair on her neck and sending a delicious shiver down her spine, much to her annoyance. He guided her hands around a wine glass. "First, follow the stem. Feel the body. Cleanse every curve, enjoy every inch, and let the warm water wash every crease." He guided her hands and kept whispering. "Then, move inside. Thrust all the way in and let yourself swirl with the foam and water until you've been attentive to every fold. Only then withdraw. Rinse her cleanly and dry her softly."

"Yeah, I get it. Very funny, Casanova. You're not helping. I want to get this done and move on to other things."

"We ARE on to other things." David's voice was still calm, reassuring, mesmerizing... and infuriating. His hands moved now to her arms, covering them with soapy water and suds. His fingers massaged her muscles. Washing, rinsing, repeating.

"You're not Patrick Swayze," she spat with less venom than she hoped and with even less resistance.

"No. I'm here."

The suds rose in the sink. The steam rose too, condensing on her face and neck. Water droplets formed on her breasts, engorged, merged, then broke free and trickled down her abdomen into her underwear, already soaked with her own feminine wetness.

Together, they rocked in silence to the rhythm of the task. The pile of dishes slowly disappeared beneath the green foam. Sheridan closed her eyes and let her hands move by feel alone. The muscles in her legs began to weaken and she was glad his strength was holding her up. Her breathing slowed and it seemed difficult to draw a breath. Then, she opened her eyes and looked down.

David was slowly kneading her breasts through the dress. Water had darkened the floral print and there was foam upon the tops of her breasts. She would have been angry about the dress, but there was no tension left in her body. Her voice came out sounding drugged.

"I'm wet."

"I hope so."

"Take it off," she sighed. Her voice was soft and pliable - and so was she.

She never felt her clothes and underwear slip off and pool at her feet. Instead, she felt the cool counter against her naked clitoris as his hips pressed against her. Behind her, there was no rough scratchiness from his trousers on her bare skin. He was nude, too, and his cock was hard against the small of her back. She felt how thick and hot it was. She wanted to turn to feel it on her belly, and inside her. But, he wouldn't let her move.

"Keep washing," he ordered, his voice deepening.

She obeyed without protest. Just his tone released another surge within her.

His hands were on her. They were wet and warm and covered with foam as they engulfed both mounds of her breasts. Waves of pleasure poured through her, displacing a great moan from deep within her. She looked down to see strong, veined, disembodied hands making love to her. She watched as her breasts lifted, separated, oozed back together under the control of her unseen lover. Sometimes the caresses were soft and teasing, leaving her restless and impatient. Then, the hands would crush her with deep, probing lust, twisting her nipples and sending agonizing torrents of pleasure deep into her, filling her.

"Keep washing."

Sheridan's own hands were moving by rote now, like completely independent robots. The pile of dishes vanished into the water, though she never noticed. After some unknown time had passed, she realized that her hands were moving aimlessly now, unable to find more work beneath the suds.

"I'm finished," she forced out between gasps.

"No, but you're getting close. And we're just getting started," he breathed back.

David released her and Sheridan turned to face him, feeling her wet breasts against his firm chest and her belly against his hard, slick, cock. More pleasure surged through her. She lifted her leg and climbed onto him, driving his erection deep into her own thoroughly wet, warm sex. He put his arms around her hips and locked them together. She ground her clitoris against the hardness of his pelvis. The climax crashed through her almost immediately, causing her muscles to writhe, compress, roll, and twist in an exquisite maelstrom. Points of light winked in the darkness of her closed eyes.

"You are a very good girl," came a voice from somewhere.

"And you..." she replied as she melted into him, "are a very big dick."

To J. B.

Farewell.