Sinful desires{steamiest short stories}

When Simon came home for lunch one day and found me cooking naked, he didn’t know what to do. We’d been living together for three months, but for some reason, he’d never been home when I’d baked.

Which shouldn’t have been a big deal at all, except for this fact: I always bake in the nude. It relaxes me.

“What’s up, Dana?” He eyed my apron, the rounded tops of my breasts barely hidden, the curve of my waist accentuated by the tightly tied apron strings.

I had flour on my arms and chocolate on my lips and my fingers were sticky with dough. The oven had made the kitchen hot, and my cheeks were flushed and pink, easily seen because I’d tied my long, black hair off my face with a rag ripped from cheesecloth.

“Baking cookies,” I told Simon innocently, turning to get a stick of butter from the refrigerator and letting him see that I had absolutely nothing on aside from my KISS THE CHEF apron. The ties hung down my naked back, tickling my ass when I moved.

He stepped closer. “Are you almost done?”

I shook my head and moved around him to the baking tin. Greasing the pan slowly with the butter, I said, “Once I put these in, I’ve got twelve minutes before the next batch can follow. I have about three batches worth of batter… so I’ll be done in about thirty-six minutes.”

I said the words flippantly. I knew what I was doing.

He watched me scoop spoonfuls of chocolate chip cookie batter onto the sheet. Then he waited for me to slide the tray into the oven. I looked over at him, wondering what he was thinking. I didn’t have to wait long.

Simon picked up one of our clean rubber-coated spatulas and motioned for me to walk to his side. “Bend over,” he said, his voice taking on that low, husky moan he gets when he’s horny. “Bend over and touch your toes.”

“Now?” I asked.

He nodded.

“We’ve only got twelve minutes,” I reminded him. “Set the timer.”Content rights by NôvelDr//ama.Org.

Swallowing hard, I set the timer on our stove and then hurried to his side. He crossed his arms and waited, and slowly I bent over and offered him my bare ass.

“Pretty thing,” he said, staring at me, moving the string of the apron aside to further admire my nakedness. “How often do you cook in the nude?”

“Just when I’m baking,” I whispered, bending over as far as I could, feeling my hair tickling my toes. “I only like to bake naked.”

“So every time we’ve had cookies…”

“Yes, and cakes, and zucchini bread-”

He ran one hand over my ass, then gave me a light slap. “That seems sort of naughty to me.”

I could see the tips of his black boots, and then they disappeared from view as he walked away. I didn’t know what he wanted me to do, so I stayed where I was. Then I heard him drag the kitchen stool over to my side. In a flash, he’d hauled me over his sturdy lap.

“I’m going to give you a paddling for being such a naughty girl,” my boyfriend said. “We’ll keep it up until your timer rings.”

I couldn’t help but turn my head. The clock let me know that I had nine minutes and thirty-four seconds to go-one heck of a paddling. I took a deep breath and waited for the first stroke.

He brought the rubbery spatula down hard on the left cheek of my ass, then again on the right.

Even coated with rubber, the implement had no give. Every stroke sounded loudly against my ass, and in moments, I was moaning. I knew better than to cover my ass or to beg Simon to go easy on me.

So I did my best to stay still, gasping great cookie-scented breaths as the chocolate melted in the oven.

After a few more strokes, Simon had me bend over and grab my ankles, and he went to work even more ferociously, punishing the backs of my thighs, the rounded curves of my ass, making me groan as he hissed, “Such a naughty girl. How else do you play when you cook?”

I thought of the time with the blender. I had innocently filled the machine with the makings of a milkshake, and then leaned my panty-clad pussy against the vibrating body of our old-fashioned glass blender.

I’d started with the first setting, the simple, always useful WHIP. (The word alone can get me in the mood.) That was nice. It had the effect of the lowest setting of my vibrator. I upped it one, to PUREE, and then one more, quickly, to CRUMB.

This was better-humming along as my milkshake whirled around. I especially liked the coolness (from the ice cream) mixed with the vibrating motor.

When I needed an extra push to bring myself higher, I upped the speed to CHOP, then GRATE, then BLEND. (Most vibrators I’ve owned have had two or three speeds. My blender has seven.)

After climaxing at LIQUEFY-followed by a little heavy breathing, and a quick adjustment of my skirt and nylons-I opened the blender and poured out my milkshake (something no vibrator can offer).

“Tell me, baby,” Simon demanded.

I described using our rolling pin, impaling myself on our cool, marble roller, thrusting over and over until the tool had been completely drenched with my own personal blend of honey.

I told him about finding a pair of towel clamps that hadn’t been attached to the wall yet. The clamps were coated with a smooth and sleek metallic paint, and I immediately placed one on each of my nipples. They pinched deliciously.

Between stinging strokes of the rubbery spatula, I told Simon about playing with our corn-silk husker (which is the softest of all kitchen brushing utensils). This little brush is more delicate than many made-for- the-job French ticklers.

After I’d come against the blender, the husker felt sinfully light on my still-humming clitoris.

Simon seemed slightly shocked, but I could tell from the gravelly sound of his voice that he was even more turned on. So I told him secrets.

The wire whisk had been next on my list of masturbatory devices. I’d heard something, somewhere, about the handle being inserted into a woman’s pussy and then the bulb being tapped to create a sort of “twangy” interior effect.

I had tried it and found that the tuning fork effect was quite unexpectedly pleasurable. I’d had visions of Simon putting one in my cunt and one in my ass and playing me like some sort of perverted musical instrument.

When I told him that one, Simon laughed, liking the image. He took a step back and I turned my head, catching a bit of him reflected in the window of our oven. He was admiring his work, and he quickly turned me so that I could have a view of my hot, crimson bottom.

“Check the cookies,” he said, his voice low, as if it were the most erotic command ever given. I took a deep breath, stood, and opened the oven. The treats were almost done, but not quite.

While we waited for the cookies to finish, Simon began rifling through our drawers, stacking item after item on the countertop.

“It’s been too long since your last punishment, hasn’t it, Dana?”

I nodded.

“We’ll take care of that today,” he assured me. “Two more twelve-minute sessions, coming right at you, baby.”

I stood back, pressing my hot ass against the refrigerator, watching as he pulled a box of plastic wrap from the drawer and placed it next to a new pair of rubber gloves, a wooden cutting board with a handle, a pair of scissors, and a roll of cheesecloth.

“Put the new batch in,” he said. I hurried to obey, carefully lifting the cookies onto a rack to cool, adding spoonful after spoonful of chocolate chip dough onto the next sheet.

“Now, come here.”

I walked to Simon’s side and he instantly had me over his lap again. This time, however, it was the cutting board that landed against my naked bottom. And, oh, talk about pain! He smacked me repeatedly with the thin, hardwood paddle, turning my ass a deeper, more perfectly-toned hue of cherry.

Checking the timer, he said, “On your feet, Dana.” I stood and he removed the cheesecloth from my hair, tying it instead as a gag between my lips. He kissed away a bit of the chocolate from my mouth and then hoisted me onto our Corian kitchen counter on my stomach.