A Taste Before Brunch
by acguy
Copyright© 2025 by acguy
Erotica Sex Story: Sophie demonstrates one of her skills. A Story in the Sophie's Stories Series
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction .
Sunlight spilled in warm and slow through the high windows of Sophie’s condo, brushing over cool tile and the long lean lines of her bare legs as she padded softly toward the kitchen. The oversized grey T-shirt she wore—his, she’d stolen it weeks ago—clung low over her hips, barely hiding anything when she stretched, which she did on purpose as soon as she saw him at the stove.
Chef was already deep in brunch prep, focused and silent, wrist flicking a sauté pan with the kind of effortless precision that made her wet in ways she never admitted out loud. He didn’t look up. Just the quiet shuffle of his bare feet and the soft sizzle of something sweet and sharp in oil. Lemongrass. Garlic. Chili.
“Mmm, that smells stupid good,” Sophie murmured, hopping up to sit on the edge of the counter, bare thighs squeaking against the polished surface.
“Still needs acid,” he replied absently.
She tilted her head. “You mean like a splash of lime or me telling you about the video I shot last night?”
He paused. Only for a second. Then resumed slicing scallions with calm, measured strokes.
She smiled.
“It was late,” she went on, swinging her feet slowly, brushing the heel of one against his leg as he stepped past to grab the fish sauce. “I couldn’t sleep. Got a little ... inspired.”
“Uh huh.”
“I set up the tripod next to the mirror. Full view. Lit it with that little lamp you hate—the warm one. Made everything look golden. Skin, sweat, my tits...”
Chef stirred the pan. He didn’t take the bait.
She leaned back on her hands, arching her chest forward. “Started on the bed. Pillow under my hips. Took my time. You’d be proud.”
“I’m always proud of your work ethic.”
Her grin widened. “You’re not even going to ask what I used?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”
Sophie licked her lower lip. “First just my fingers. Then the glass plug. The one you said was too pretty to be practical.”
Chef turned down the heat, still without looking at her. “You mean the one you nearly dropped in the sink last week?”
“The very same.” She tilted her head, voice dropping to a lazy purr. “I got it so slippery I thought I’d have to chase it across the sheets.”
Still nothing. He plated the omelette, wiped the rim like it was a Michelin tasting menu, and placed the dish beside her on the counter.
She didn’t touch it.
“Then I used the wand,” she said, a little softer, watching him now. “Laid there with my legs wide open, shirt pulled up, ass clenched around that plug while I shook my way through three orgasms.”
Chef finally met her eyes.
“I was loud,” she added, heat sparking between her thighs at the memory. “Not fake loud. Like actual panting, whimpering, toes curling kind of loud.”
He leaned one hand on the counter, the other resting loosely at his side. His expression stayed neutral, unreadable. But she saw the way his knuckles tensed.
Sophie reached out, fingers trailing along the inside of his wrist. “Wanna know what I thought about for the fourth one?”
“Let me guess,” he said. “My béchamel.”
She laughed, slow and throaty. “No, smartass. I thought about kneeling right here. In this shirt. My knees on the tile, your cock in my mouth, the pan still hot behind us.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“Right here,” she whispered, shifting her legs apart so her bare pussy peeked out beneath the hem. “Where no one could see your face. Just your hands. Your cock. The way your fingers tighten when I suck it just the way you like.”
Chef reached out and slid his hand behind her neck, slow but firm, pulling her closer by nothing more than a handful of hair. She didn’t resist. Her eyes widened, lips parting. She loved when he went quiet like this—not angry, not rough, just controlled.
“I told you brunch came first,” he said quietly.
“You did.” Her voice was breathy now. “But I’m fucking starving.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game.”
She pressed her mouth to the underside of his wrist. “Good. I like games.”
He looked up toward the spice rack.
“Camera’s already mounted,” she murmured before he could ask. “Battery charged. Angle just right.”
Chef stepped back and unzipped his jeans.
She stayed still, kneeling on the tile. The camera high above them showed only his body from the collarbone down—head cropped, identity safe. Always. The way they liked it.
Sophie sat back on her heels, shirt draped open, one hand tracing lazy circles on the inside of her thigh. She looked up at him with a gaze that was all invitation and fire.
“You hard yet?” she asked, grinning. “Or do you need me to beg?”
His cock was already half-hard, heavy and thick in his hand as he stroked it slowly, letting her watch.
“I think you need to work for it,” he said. “Show me what that mouth’s good for.”
“Oh, baby,” she whispered, crawling forward. “You have no idea.”
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