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The Kitchen, the Cook, the Meat and Her Lover. “Look if you want you can cook for me on Saturday.” I told her. “You choose the meal and get the stuff together and cook it as a surprise.” She’d wanted to cook for me since about two weeks into this thing and I’d always put it off for no real reason. Quite why this simple act was so important to her I had no idea. The next thing I know I’m sank deep into a bath with a glass of wine balanced on the shelf that straddles the tub and she’s chopping away at some poor vegetable or herb or meat. We’ve made love twice already and now it’s just past noon. She wants to pamper me. So there’s the meal, the love making, the wine and then later massage oils and more love making. There’s only so much love making a man can endure before fucking needs to be performed. In the bath I wonder just how I got to this point. An 18 year old girl friend with me 30, nearly 31. It’s something that shouldn’t be questioned I decide and take a slow sip of wine. I think about the love making. It’s a fair description of the first clinch but the second can only be described as fucking. Her on all fours, backside high in the air as I thrash into her until we collapse. The chopping has reached fever pitch and I hope that this is a good thing. I slip down into the water and the chopping disappears. I resurface for a sip of wine. Decent white stuff from the local supermarket. A drink is a drink is a drink. Her voice breaks my meditation. “Are you nearly ready?” She questions. “If you are.” I say. “You’re ok for a while.” She informs. So there I lay…up to my neck in hot water. This is good stuff. I like the wine and the fucking and the love making and the chopping and the bathing. It’s all good. I lay there. Stupid. Smiling. Half sleeping. I always have trouble separating the good from the bad. But this is without a doubt good. I’m sure. More sure than usual. “It’s nearly ready.” She calls. I’m just about ready too.
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