The Honey Jar

In the middle of whisking, he walks in, and I feel heat rise in me. His long torso is completely bare, and I visually devour his olive brown skin that seems made to be stared at. He’s wearing the lowest imaginable crimson boxer briefs, and my brown fur coat. His long masculine figure walks to the shelves, and his feminine hands grasp a jar of honey, a peach blush across his face as he catches my stare.

“What’s the occasion?” He asks, smiling at my pancake batter from a distance. I’m always the one that starts things off with coy actions. Whether it be a lingering touch, a neck grip, or an overly friendly back hug. And he always ends me with his forward flirtations that leave me flustered. But not this time. I’m too hungry.

“I could ask you the same.” I point at his lack of clothes. Now he’s the flustered one, leaving me deliciously on top. 

“I wanted to be admired,” he catches up.

“Well, lucky for me the others aren’t here, but believe me they would have admired you.” 

He places the jar down on the table, his broad back facing me and doesn’t say a word.

“But that’s the thing. They can look at you…” I walk up behind him, and hear his calming breath. “Only I can have you.” 

He turns around and looks down on me with his bedroom eyes, his mouth is open as if he’s going to say something. I practically pounce on him as I grip his hips and press my tongue on his. In this sloppy rough kiss he still manages to gracefully lead my tongue with his, turning the kiss breathy and slow. His long arms drape around my neck, and his slim fingers grip my hair. 

“Don’t…you know that only I…can see you like this?” My right hand slides so far down his ass the tips of my fingers graze his taint. He breaks our lips apart and gifts me with the quietest moan that only I can catch; yet the sound is so visceral that I can’t help but groan back. I see his neck thrown back, and as he starts to straighten again, I stop him.

“Tsk, tsk. Stay.” I whisper as I keep his neck bent back, and lightly skim his Adam's apple with my fingers. I make my way back to the space between his legs and continue to squeeze his plumpness as my two fingers rub. The room is silent other than his moans every time my fingers brush against his hole. 

“Haikuan…” He moans my name and massages the swollen mound that’s stifled under my robe. Suddenly the fabric under my fingers frustrates me. 

“Turn around.” I command. 

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