Breakfast in Bed

by Blowjob Suzuki

Copyright© 2018 by Blowjob Suzuki

Erotica Sex Story: He makes breakfast in bed for her while she watches, then has her for breakfast.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   Heterosexual   Fiction   Exhibitionism   Oral Sex   .

My eyes fluttered open. I breathed deeply, well-rested and satisfied. My stomach grumbled in protest. Almost satisfied, I corrected myself. I stretched my limbs, still locked in John’s embrace as he slept peacefully.

“Wake uuup,” I whined. He grunted and shifted, his hand finding its way to my right breast purely by instinct, squeezing me gently through my shirt, pulling me closer against his warm body, against his hard, eager morning wood. I bit my lip. This was okay, too, I decided. I wiggled deeper into his arms, savoring the feeling of his lust against me, enveloped in that oh-so-deliciously manly aroma of his that he always woke up with. I was always a little disappointed when he showered it away, so mornings were my favorite time to be in his arms and just enjoy his scent.

I could have just lay there forever like that, counting his heartbeats, feeling his chest pressing against me with each breath, caressing his muscled arm with my fingers, and enjoying the way his cock twitched every so often against me, as if it knew I were close, as if it were searching for my cunt to impale. Its gentle throbbing, its urgent rigidity, like an animal ready to pounce. There was something primal about the way he slept nude with me, an untamed beast that I had temporarily convinced to share my bed, that might ravage me the moment he awakened, without any way to protect myself. I preferred to wear his boxers and t-shirt from the day before to bed, wrapping myself in his musk and warmth and presence. I slept so well that way, totally safe and secure with him there.

But, alas! All good things must come to an end. “G’morning, Princess,” John mumbled, his mouth buried in my hair. His voice still had that gravelly depth of groggy mornings and too-early risings, a seductive rasp that was often to be found in my daydreams.

“Good morning, Darling. Up early, aren’t we?” I teased, wiggling my behind, his manhood rising against me in response.

“Aren’t I always when you spend the night?”

I rolled over so I could face him and look into his dark, cocoa eyes. I kissed his lips. So soft ... and the way they left a tingle on my body wherever they touched ... His hardness throbbed impatiently against me. How easy it would be to let him slide into me ... But one bodily craving at a time ... I wrapped my arms around his neck and asked him, “What are you going to do about it?”

With a growl he reached his hands down and grabbed my ass. “I have an idea or two.”

“Whatever could they be? Does it involve this?” I asked, grabbing him firmly.

“It might...” he murmured, as he brought his lips to my earlobe, to my neck, to my collarbone.

I pumped his length a few times, enough to heighten his appetite, before whispering in his ear, “Seduce my stomach first, Darling, and then I’ll let you have the rest of me.”

A groan of frustration, hissed through clenched teeth. “What do you want? Wait, let me guess ... Eggs Benedict?”

I scoffed. “No! Psh! Don’t act like you know me.”

“Okay, okay ... so what do you want?”

“Scrambled eggs. I’m very unpredictable.”

“Alright, scrambled eggs it is.”

“But but but,” I interjected, “they need to be made in a very specific way.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Instead of scrambling them in a pan, I want you to cook them in boiling water out of the shell, and leave them untouched.”

“So ... poached?”

“I mean, if you want to use that word. And then I want my scrambled-”

“Poached.”

“Scrambled eggs put on top of some Canadian bacon, and then I want them both on top of an English muffin, and then I want Hollandaise sauce on top.”

“This sounds an awful lot like Eggs Benedict.”

“Well it’s not. It’s scrambled eggs à la Katelyn.”

“Uh huh. And do you want to watch?” he asked kissing my forehead.

“Yes, please, my chef.”

“And ... afterwards... ?”

“You can do whatever you want to me,” I assured him.

He sighed deeply, weighing his options. Finally, he tore himself away from my body and knelt up on the bed. “Deal.”

I reached out a hand and grabbed between his legs. “Deal. Let’s shake on it,” I suggested, doing so with a smirk.

“I think that’s supposed to be a handshake.”

“I prefer my way,” I explained, caressing his long, hot shaft with my thumb.

“Breakfast?”

“Right!” I reluctantly let go. “Go on, then. Cook, cook!” I shooed him away and wrapped myself up in his covers. He put on his slippers, and only his slippers, before leaving the room. I stared at his tight ass shamelessly, reliving memories of its firmness in my hands. He soon returned and handed me my iPad. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Princess.” And again he left, my eyes lingering on his broad shoulders and the muscles of his wide, smooth back. I sighed as he left my sight. From the kitchen came the metallic bangs, the watery susurrus, and the wooden scrapes of a chef preparing his mise en place. I fidgeted impatiently, waiting for that familiar ring.

The culinary cacophony concluded. Moments later, the tablet jingled, accompanied by John’s face and a notice that he wanted to Facetime. I accepted and waited for him to appear.

“Hello there, Katelyn,” he greeted me.

“Hello, my chef. Muah! What are you going to cook for me today?”

“I was thinking pancakes,” he lied. I could see the English muffins ready.

“Boo! I’m changing the channel!

“Eggs Benedict?”

“Yay! I’m not changing the channel!” I loved his passion when he cooked, his focus. Even when he did these little streams for me, his attention was focused on creating something delicious just for me. The fact that he was wearing nothing but a skimpy apron didn’t hurt my enjoyment, either. He let the top drape down so that it was more loincloth than apron, exposing a smooth, broad chest and a delicious set of abs.

“I’ve already got the water on for poached eggs, but that’ll take a while. So while that’s boiling, let’s get everything else ready.

“First, the Hollandaise sauce.” His hands moved deftly. He picked up an egg in each, cracked them on the edge of a bowl, and opened them up simultaneously, their yolks dropping out of sight. He grabbed hold of a small yellow tool and sucked up the yolks, gently depositing them into a metal bowl. “We’ve got our egg yolks. Next, a squirt of lemon juice.” He selected a halved lemon and placed it at the tip of a wooden reamer, roughly pressing it and twisting the juice out of it, letting it dribble into the bowl, his muscles bulging slightly, a smile on his face that I doubt he even noticed he had. He removed the lemon, grabbed a whisk, and stirred.

“This is the annoying part,” he warned. He placed the bowl on top of another saucepan, the new angle revealing his bare ass behind his apron. He gave it a wiggle and winked at the camera. I averted my eyes briefly, chagrined at being caught. He picked up a small ramekin and drizzled its contents into the bowl, continuing to stir all the while. “You need to add the melted butter and keep stirring, but if it gets too hot, the yolks scramble and you’re left with really buttery scrambled eggs instead of a sauce, so you have to keep an eye on it. So no distractions, Princess.”

“None?” I asked. I reached up under my shirt, looking down at my fingertips rubbing my nipples beneath the fabric before returning his gaze.

He licked his teeth and exhaled. “N-none.”

“If you insist,” I relented, removing my hands. Although I couldn’t help but notice that my nipples were now visibly poking through. Judging from the way John kept gazing back at me, he had noticed, too, but I simply acted as though I had no idea. I was just an innocent audience member.

Fortunately, even my pebble-hard nipples couldn’t distract my chef for too long, and he finished his fluffing, took the sauce off the pan before showing it to the camera, my stomach tightening at the sight of its golden contents. “Perfect! Look at that! Doesn’t it look delicious?”

“Mhm!”

He turned off the flame, grabbed some spices off the rack, dashed them in, gave a final stir, and set the bowl aside. He grabbed two English muffins and twisted them in half. A spread of butter later, and onto the griddle they went to toast, followed shortly after by four slices of Canadian bacon. “Water’s finally ready, so we can poach our eggs,” he observed. Sweat dewed upon his chest from the heat of the kitchen, his skin glistening. One by one, he cracked four eggs into the boiling water.

Things moved too quickly for him now to distract himself with narration, so he flipped and sauteed in silence as I watched, growing hungrier and hornier. His focus lay on the food, and mine on him. While the ingredients cooked, he prepared his presentation. Once the English muffins were golden brown, they went onto the plate, topped by one slightly seared, pink slice of bacon. Aromas of my breakfast beckoned to me, drifting into the bedroom. From the water into the spoon and onto the ham came a firm, white poached egg, and lastly, golden Hollandaise cascaded from the bowl onto the food, gilding the plate. “And voila! Eggs Benedict! But you know, there’s one last ingredient I need, for garnish.”

“What?”

“One pair of firm, delicious melons. And they need to be quite large. I think, oh ... C cups would do it.”

“Since when are melons measured in cups?” I asked, narrowing my eyes and pouting. “This sounds suspicious.”

“That’s how all chefs measure them! I swear. Would I lie?” he asked, hand to his chest.

“Well, if it’s absolutely necessary, how can I say no?” I asked. I sat up in bed and adjusted the tablet so that my chest was front and center. John grinned as though he were about to unwrap the biggest Christmas gift under the tree. His smile was contagious. I circled my fingertips around my stiffening nipples as he stared. I smirked haughtily as he gazed, unblinking, while I grabbed the bottom of my shirt and slowly raised it, keeping it tight against my chest, lifting up my breasts until they could no longer be contained, and my heavy, tan breasts dropped out of my top. I left my shirt sitting at my collarbone and brought my arms inward, deepening my cleavage. “How are these?” I asked innocently. “Are they good enough, my chef?” He stared in silence. I cleared my throat. “Chef?”

“Oh! Yes, they’re just perfect...” Already, a thick bulge had grown under his apron. I bit my lip. My thighs warmed. Oh my...

“And how will you be adding them to the meal? I’m rather attached to them, you know,” I observed, looking down at my bared breasts, my brown nipples erect and thick.

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