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Eating And/As Fucking

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Cooking dinner turns to urgent blow job, tit fucking, ass licking...

He was making shakshuka and Otis Redding was playing. Outside it was raining theatrically, performatively, un-Londonly in defiant refusal of the city’s politesse. Its grammar of mannerly evisceration and well-behaved alienation, intelligible to those raised to guarantee its proliferation, nebulously comprehensible to the rest. Only insofar as its sting is felt first through its delivery and second, through the assured sense that something is happening that implicates but refuses to reveal itself.

He was, of course, ‘raised for it’, in it, but spent his life and work thinking about, obsessing over, resisting with ‘the rest’ in all their incarnations with a tenacity matched only by a parallel fixation on whether or how he should be doing this or indeed, fixating. His elastic mind dwelled momentarily on the metaphorical symmetry of precipitation before berating himself for the adolescent earnestness. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered to himself, ‘any moment now you’ll whip out an acoustic guitar and start playing Time of your Life.’

She arrived late, loud, and wet. As was her wont. She was on the border of the rest, with vulgar edges and a directness that made British people awkward, but was raised for something else, somewhere else to proliferate other things that were egregious in less genteel ways. Her hair stuck to her face, clothes drenched and cold, knickers saturated from fantasising about his cock on the bus. The warmth of that wetness starkly contrasting the iciness of the rest of it. ‘I’m so fucking happy to see you,’ she said kissing him voraciously.

He poured her a gin with a wedge of lime. She had a sip and thought briefly about Botanics. The shakshouka simmered, tomatoes sensuously red, vibrant, redolent with sex. Everything was sex with him. His being, his brain, his heart, his cock made her feel perpetually on the verge of coming.

He fucked her feministly. He was bold and assertive and powerful. He took her fully. And yet, the power was always underpinned by an erotic politics of equity. Every time they fucked she had to ask him to stop the second his perfect cock slid into her tight pussy. She needed a moment to breathe, to encounter the delicious impossible task of stopping herself from coming instantly, of resisting dissolution into the full-body orgasms he artfully elicited in her so she could fuck him slowly until they came together.

She almost always failed and came within seconds. It was euphoric full body, full mind, deep pussy pleasure she had never in her life experienced despite having fucked her way through much of her life, and – with no small amount of smugness – having prided herself on her capacity to select majestic lovers and to come ebulliently.

And almost every time, even when she thought she had reached the pinnacle of pleasure, his orgasm, with the concomitant pulsating of his huge cock, with the shift in his body from melted softness into hers to a stiffness of anticipation, with his vocal cries of, ‘oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Jesus, I’m coming so hard, Jesus, fuck, yes,’ unearthed a second wave of intense eros in her that almost always led to her coming again. This time with him, moaning loudly, her pussy clamping involuntarily around his cock, breathing deeply but sometimes unable to breathe and on the verge of passing out from the intensity of it all.

Sharing with him a predilection for poetics, she sometimes thought of it as an auto-asphyxiative pleasure; with prefix play on auto for automatic rather than self.

With a wooden spoon, he gently fashioned four craters in the shakshouka into which he began to decant four endearing little eggs. He only fucked up one of them, its yolk bleeding into the red of the rest.

She watched him concentrating fastidiously on this process with the intensity of a surgeon navigating a ventricle; an intensity she recognised from when buried his face in her cunt and sucked on her clit.

She was overcome by his sexiness. He was the most magnificent man she had ever seen, his pure physical perfection magnified by the unending beauty of his brain, his kindness, the generous authenticity of his smile, his dazzling brilliance.

Unable to resist, she wedged herself between him and the stove and dropped to her knees rubbing her face against his cock through his jeans. Almost instantly, she felt his cock stiffen, pushing against his trousers resisting their containment as he rammed his bulge against her face.

Feverishly, she attempted to undo his belt, which obstreperously defied her advances until he rapidly unbuckled it, pushing his trousers and pants down. There was no time to take them off, they sat around his ankles as she placed her mouth on the tip of his beautiful dick.

She sucked his head hard, interrupting aggressive sucking with playful frantic rolling of her tongue over the tip of his cock in response to which he twitched and moaned. She ripped off his shirt and kissed his chest, burying her face in the thicket of gently ginger chest hair that made her wet on sight. She stuck her tongue deep in his ear and he cried out with delight.

She bit the perfect spot where his tight tummy descended into his crotch, teasing him as the juice from her pussy started to dribble down her thigh.

She returned to his cock, this time taking it deeply into her mouth. She took it whole to the back of her throat, feeling it choke her, feeling on the edge of gagging, feeling overwhelmed by the erotic power of this space between pleasure and pain.

She sucked it hard, moving faster, his cries getting louder. She ripped off her shirt and buried his cock between her tits fucking him with them and licking the tip of his cock when it emerged from its journey through them.

Taking his cock in her hand, she slowly moved to his balls, taking each one into her mouth, gently at first, and then with increasing voracity, all the while jerking him off as he fucked her face. With curiosity, she moved further back, to the perfect raised bridge between his balls and his asshole.

Holding his cock firmly in her gyrating hand, she licked this spot with acrobatic flicks a few times before burying her face at the edge of his ass and fully eating this magic spot which appeared to be unlocking paroxysms of pleasure in him. She sucked and licked and ate with depraved greed.

The taste of him was exquisite. Her whole face was wet, her hips moving involuntarily from the pleasure of his body.

He began to shake. Her jerking off became more rapid, her imbibing of his bridge spot more hungry, more obsessive, more intense. And then, as if possessed, he began to moan louder, shouting, breathing, shaking, ‘oh my god, I’m coming so hard, Jesus Fucking Christ.’ He came with his whole body, his spunk on her shoulder and in her hair.

He couldn’t stand from the pleasure. He sat on the chair in the kitchen. He looked at her with a face that said ‘I love you’ without words.

The eggs, neglected by the lovers, were almost hard-boiled, solid little interruptions in the sensuous fluid mixture. They did not care about eggs with which one could juggle, nor anything besides each other and the rough dreams they’d remember. They ate their shakshouka satisfied, slowly, and naked.

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