BBQ preparations

(I wrote this Saturday, but was not allowed online, therefore I could only publish it this Sunday morning)

Due to the stupid beginning of yesterday (Friday), Amy and I had a long talk, and she’ll be here today (Saturday) too, for a BBQ we had arranged last week. I have written down some of yesterday’s talk. But since there is an Amy-part in it, I would not publish any of it without her permission. We’ll see. So this is what occupied my thoughts throughout the morning, but this is Saturday, a good Saturday. I have prepared salad for our BBQ, everything is arranged and all I have to do, is make butter rolls. They can be spicy if you want that. I will have some with diced bacon and ham, some with cheese, some with herbs and some will be plain white. If you want to, you can do them with onion and garlic. Not for me, though, I cannot stand the smell at the moment.

This morning, it is quite warm here, and I had thought about just wearing my support belt in the kitchen. Hubby did not want that, but we compromised. Belt, short wide blue dress and in the kitchen, my apron. I am barefoot. The coolness of the stone floor is pleasant and if I could come up again easier, I’d sit on the floor to knead the dough. Instead, I stand and work the dough on the kitchen counter. My hands are white from the flour, and the dough, yellow and still not soft enough, will need a lot of attention from me. I blow a wisp of my hair away. Where did that come from? I had it all tied up securely. It’s too long to have it open in the kitchen. It comes back. I blow it away a second time. If it comes back again, I’ll have to stop kneading the dough, because it disturbs my rhythm. Nothing, it is gone. Good! I knead on, move my shoulders to give me more strength to knead the dough.

 I dwell on what the afternoon will be like. I can barely wait for it to start, but there’s plenty of time. I sigh deeply. Inhale the smell of my favourite spices. Cinnamon, yummy. I want to make cinnamon coffee whenever I smell it. Bad girl. Don’t even think about it. Curry. Lovely, but my stomach says no. I try to smell some others, but instead I receive a kiss onto my neck and I smell my freshly shaved hubby.

I lean into him, but he would not let me turn around. It would have been so sexy, with me unable to use my hands covered in flour. He holds my arms down, on the counter. “Knead on!” Oh, that sounds promising, doesn’t it? I do as told. He nudges my ear, I can feel his hand hitching my dress up. High, very high. He caresses my breasts, my bump and reaches below my belt. He stops his movement before his finger sweeps along my hip and lets me shiver. “Knead on, sweetie” I hear next to my ear.  He did not know that I was naked underneath. Maybe I should make sure that this was ok? “We had not discussed my knickers” I answer to a question he never asked. His nose is still at my ear. He breathes me in; hey wait, does he laugh at me?! I hear him chuckle behind me, his upper body rocks slightly. How can I possibly knead on? At least I try, and my hands are on the counter, too. I would love turning around, but it would be over immediately, I know that.

I feel another kiss and lean my head back and try to find his lips. But I can barely snatch a kiss from him. He leaves me yearning for more, moves my ponytail aside and kisses me along my neck, to my cheeks, and finally, my mouth. I can feel in different spots of my body how much more I want now. And I want to get rid of my clothes, because somehow they are restricting. His hands are moving softly under my dress, find their way to my breasts and down. Eventually, he touches between my legs. I moan, and would love him to do more, now, immediately. “Please” Can he hear my craving? He has started this. If he stops now, I’ll yearn for more all through the BBQ! His hand moves on and finds a tantalizingly slow rhythm between my legs. He knows what he is doing to me. I can barely breathe, can just stand still. I feel the other hand exploring, slowly caressing my bum, my hips. Suddenly he stops. But why? I open my eyes slowly.

Casually, he turns me around, to face him. I keep my hands away from him, because they are still soiled and white. I push the dough back. He takes me under my arms and places me on the counter. My bum is full of flour now, but at least the dough is saved. “Don’t use your hands, or I’ll stop.” I nod, my throat feels so dry that I have to clear it before I croak “Yes, Sir”. 

While we face each other, he reads me. By now, my body has taken over and I don't read, instead, my body responds. I see him take off his T-shirt before he takes off my apron. The dress follows and I see some flour dust trickle down as he pulls it away over my head and lets it fall. He opens his pants and lets them slide down. As he frees himself, I would love so much to touch him. Actually I would love (!) to leave traces of flour all over him, his cheeks, his chest, arms, bottom. None of this will happen, and I better obey. I lean back, rest on my hands and look at him invitingly. Slowly he pushes my legs apart and comes closer. His skin touches my thighs. I lean further back, onto my elbows, so that my bump is out of the way. He knows that I am all ready, it is too obvious, but he won’t enter until I am close to begging. He teases me, kisses my nips, pulls me slightly forward, so that we can kiss long and intimately. His hands move over my body.  By that time it is him who leaves traces of flour all over me. Dusty fingerprints. If I were not so endlessly aroused, he would probably tickle me with some of what he does, but now, it all makes me wish for more. “Please!” I can hear the urgency in my own voice. And before I fully close my eyes, I can see him elated by what he does to me. As he enters, I lay down to give myself to this moment. 

Have a happy weekend, everybody!