Girl on Girl in the Kitchen

“Cassie, when you’re done cutting those pineapples you can just leave the knife on the counter. I’m going to slice some citrus for cocktails later.” 

Citrus. God, the way she said that with her slight southern drawl sent a wave of goose bumps down my neck. I hadn’t expected a woman of her age to affect me so…intensely. I caught myself, shook my head.  A woman of her age. She wasn’t ancient. Fifty, maybe. A lithe, decidedly sexy fifty. 

I had been running my own catering business for six months and this was my first big client. Monica Moss, well known local author, writer of award winning novels, acclaimed host of soirees where composers, poets, painters, and all sorts of creative what-have-yous could be seen rubbing shoulders. Not that I had even attended one. Not that someone like me would ever be extended such an invitation. Twenty-five and fresh out of culinary school, a relative nobody with a new business venture I was running myself into the round to sustain. The catering idea was years in the making and built of all the blood, sweat, and tears you’d imagine. Slowly, thank god, I was gaining traction with locals. Birthdays. Office parties. But a private event for Monica, this was a huge deal. 

She and I had been getting together periodically over the previous month to plan the night’s menu. Because I was a team of one everything required extra prep and foresight. She’d been incredibly gracious and offered to let me come over to her house in the morning to begin preparing for the evening’s event. When I arrived she was wearing a silk nightgown, tied loosely in a demure knot about her waist. Her hair was down and tousled with sleep, but her iconic black eyeliner was already smeared in thick lines of coal around her dark eyes. She greeted me with a warm hug, and had I imagined that she held me just a little too close? Pressed her chest to mine for just a beat longer than would be considered casual? 

I’d been slicing fruits all morning when Monica asked me, “Cassie, what do you think – to go with the fruit and cheese, a mezcal, or just white wine? I don’t want to overwhelm everyone right off the bat with the hard stuff, but a little smoky finish would be delightful alongside pineapple and chèvre, don’t you agree?”

I looked up at her, momentarily captivated by the curl of silver hair that was dangling against her cheek, her dark, dramatically arched eyebrows, her red lips, filled in with a matte hue and lined in burgundy. 

“I…shit, ow.” Stupid, stupid! I thought, How fucking unprofessional. I’d managed to slice my palm gazing at Monica like a pubescent boy in a girl’s locker room. “I’m so sorry Monica, I’ll clean the knife right away.” Blood had gotten on some of the spheres of pineapple I’d been carving into hearts, on the cutting board, on my shirt. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it had bled enough, and it was too late. All the fruit would have to be thrown out and started again. I felt a surge of heat rush into my cheeks. How embarrassing. 

“Cassie, Cassie. Don’t worry.” Monica rushed to my side with a linen napkin in her hand. Before I could protest her ruining a swatch of fabric that likely cost more than my jeans, she had pressed it to my palm and was guiding me over to the sink. “Shh,” she cooed in my ear, “it happens. Let’s see how deep it is.” She pulled the napkin back and a small trickle of my blood ran onto her hand. She didn’t seem to notice. “It’s not so bad. Come with me. I have some Band-Aids and plastic gloves in the bathroom. We’ll get you good and new.” 

Bent over the bathroom sink together I caught a whiff of her perfume. Vetiver. “It’s going to be alright. I’ll help you with the rest of the fruit, any of it that needs to be redone. We bought too much anyway. I honestly had no idea what I was going to do with six pineapples. I’m glad you bled on half of them!” 

I laughed and took a deep breath. My hand was still in hers despite all bandaging being over. 

Monica’s eyes twinkled at me. Was her face getting closer to mine? Her robe had opened slightly, and from my angle I could glance down and see a pattern of freckles over her brown skin, the beginning swell of a breast. I coughed and looked away.

“All better.” she said, most definitely leaning in closer now. Was it normal for business owners to behave this way with clients? Was any of this normal? She was treating me in a friendly way, yes, but this was beyond. 


Her thumb traced over my bandage, upwards and over the soft skin of my inner wrist. And suddenly her mouth was hovering in front of mine and she was saying the impossible, gorgeous words, “Cassie, I’ve really been feeling happy about getting to know you.”

Before I knew what I was doing, I was leaning in, tracing a finger over her red lips and gripping the back of her head as I kissed her. I tangled my fingers in her curls and let one hand snake down the back of her neck. I pulled back, shocked at myself.

“Oh my god, Monica. I’m so sorry, I…”

But before I could finish she’d pulled me back in, was shushing me with her tongue and pushing me against the bathroom sink. I sat on it, legs opening, guiding her in, closing around her. She was the perfect height to kiss me, here, like this. 

I was wearing an apron, a boxy, so unsexy apron that was splattered with tropical juices. I had to get it off. My hands twisted around and fumbled with the knot at the back while my neck strained forward to keep kissing Monica. Her mouth tasted smoky and laced with something acidic and sweet. 

“Someone was sampling that Mezcal.” I grinned up at her, one eye delivering a sly wink. 

She laughed. “Having you in my house was giving me a bit of a rush. I needed something to steel my nerves. Cassie, you really…” she pulled back, shook her head, “you really have a way of working me up.”

Me?? My head was spinning. Monica Moss was between my legs singing my praises, telling me I gave her butterflies? Was the system glitching? Whose beautiful reality had I fallen into?

I wanted all of her. I finally undid my apron. Let it slip from my hands. 

I took a deep breath. Grounded myself for what I wanted to make happen next. My fingers and toes were going numb, a slow buzzing beginning somewhere behind my ears. I was seeing double. Shit, was I going to pass out? No, no way. 

“Well…we still have four hours until the partygoers get here. It might be time to take a break, let me relax you a little.” Yes. I was proud of myself. I could do this. 

That was all the encouragement she needed. Monica gripped the back of my head, thrust her face against mine, and we were kissing wildly. Teeth knocking, lips locked against each other’s with such force that when we separated for air we were both gasping, gulping down lungfuls before diving back in to continue devouring one another. 

She had me pinned against the bathroom mirror. My ass had slipped backwards and into the sink without me realizing until Monica and I stopped necking long enough for me to feel the faucet rammed against my back. My legs were sticking up at a comical angle. I started laughing. 

Monica cocked her head, grinning. “Now that doesn’t look very comfortable.” She reached out and hoisted me up. Standing pressed together, she ran her hands up my neck, into my hair. She took my pointer finger and while making heady, unbroken eye contact, she swallowed it up to the last knuckle. I could feel her tongue tracing it in small circles, her teeth biting down just hard enough to give me a taste of what kind of lover she might be. A husky moan escaped from the back of my throat. A small pool of wet was gathering heat between my legs. 

Suddenly, her hand was there, massaging my clit through my jeans, her fingers rubbing their way from my ass and back towards my pussy, back and forth, back and forth. She leaned in harder and used the seam of my jeans to really grind into me. She was hitting my clit at an excruciatingly perfect angle, the nerves there sending fireworks up into my belly and back down, barreling through the core of me. 

“Holy shit, Monica,” I breathed. “How are you doing that through jeans? It’s like you’re clairvoyant with my cunt.” My shoulders were curling inward, then heaving out. She was literally working me, like a machine or device that she was maneuvering with the simple push of a button. 

“Honey I’ve spent my whole life mastering the art of reading pussy lips. Consider me a scholar.”

I pulled at the sash around her waist, managing to get the words, “May I?” out between ragged breaths. She nodded, grinning. Monica was still massaging my helpless pussy and my hands shook as I slowly undid the bow that held her robe together. 

Finally it was loose and Monica stepped back, giving my body a break from her bone-melting touch. It also gave me a chance to gather myself and take her in fully, which she seemed more than happy about. Monica smiled coyly as she held the satin robe at her shoulders, letting it drop open and hang before exposing anything more. She wasn’t wearing underwear, and the cusp of her breasts hung heavy, the barest edge of purple nipples visible before disappearing behind the larger veil. My eyes swept downwards, taking in the soft swell of her hips, the landscape of her stomach, the dark V that tapered into the crease of her thighs. When she’d let me linger, could be sure my eyes had traveled up and down her body and were aching for more, she let the robe drop to the floor where is sat in a crumpled heap of satin at her feet. It looked like it was bowing to her and I wanted to also. Her thighs were full and gleaming, as though she had oiled them before I came over. In fact her whole body had that shine, and she radiated, sculpture-like. 

“I’m melting. You are so beautiful.” And she took me by the hand, began leading me to what I thought would be the bedroom, but no, the kitchen.

“The kitchen?” 

“Cassie, take your clothes off. I want to eat these off of you.” 

Monica held up a cube of watermelon, sucked on it deliberately while staring me down. A gush between my legs. Roger that.

I scrambled out of my jeans and t-shirt, stood there in my underwear with my arms impulsively crossed over my stomach, covering myself. Monica walked over and took me by the wrists, uncrossing them. Her hands cupped my breasts through my lace bralette, and teasingly she snapped one of the straps against my shoulder. A slight sting. God she was hot. I pulled the bra up over the heft of my tits, released the full weight of them into her hands. She inhaled sharply, squeezed them and circled one nipple with the cube of watermelon while taking the other into her mouth. She bit. Lightly. Then not so lightly. Then lightly again. My neck arced back and I moaned, greedy for whatever else she was going to do to me.

She began kissing my mouth, rubbing the cube of watermelon over my lips, then down my chin, my neck, over my chest. Wherever the watermelon went her mouth followed and soon she was following its trail over my stomach, along my hips, to the top of my panties. With her free hand she hooked one finger in the band and began tugging them down over my ample ass. She kissed my mound, let my underwear slip to the floor. The watermelon was sliding along the soft skin of my inner thighs. I parted my legs slightly, allowing it to continue wandering. 

I leaned back against the large island in Monica’s kitchen where the array of fruit was spread out. She got down on her knees before me, traced the watermelon over my labia, along my slit, pushed it slightly against my opening, worked it over my clit. She was lathering me with its juices and those mixed with the stream of my own. When I was so slick I thought I might die if she didn’t eat me immediately, Monica popped the cube of watermelon in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. She swallowed, then took each of my thighs in a hand and spread them as far as I could go while standing. 

She propped herself below me and began circling my clit with her tongue, sucking the watermelon’s sweetness from all the edges of me buried there. Around clefts of skin and my hole and the hard pith of my clitoris she brought her tongue, leaving no area neglected. I could see the top of her head, the silver of her hair. Every now and then she would look up at me, holding my gaze as the tip of her tongue buried itself in me again. She was giving me to lightning, letting pleasure hold me over a flame, ablaze, near burning, but not quite. Not yet. A slow throbbing was beginning in my center. A dull ache, the kind of pain that is pleasure taken almost too far, a sensory overload that rides the cusp of what your body can bear. I was close. But I didn’t want to come. Not yet.  

I pushed my hips back and her head bent forward, greedy for more. I knelt down, a wedge of pineapple in hand. I traced one finger lightly over one of her erect nipples, said, “Let me for you. I want you in my mouth, Monica.”

She immediately lay back on the kitchen floor, propping herself up with her elbows as she spread her legs wide to reveal her swollen cunt. The small curls of hair between her legs were visibly moist and the flesh shone with a definitive slickness. 

“Fine then,” she said, “show me what you’re working with.” I got down on my knees, too, crouching between her thighs and running my fingers over the curve of them. I had the piece of pineapple in my own mouth, held delicately between my front teeth. Slowly, taking my time, teasing her, I knelt down and traced over the crease where her thighs and hips met with the pineapple. I gathered a handful of fruit from the plate above and began to place discs of it over the length of her body. She stretched out for me, shivering slightly each time I placed a new piece of guava, or melon, or mango against her bare skin. Over nipples and lower belly, clavicle and thighs I adorned her, and wherever fruit went my lips followed, kissing, licking, blessing her. 

But I couldn’t take it anymore, this slowness, the playful teasing with fruit. Enough, I thought, I just want to bury myself in her. 

My left hand was caressing her pussy, my thumb probing in and out of her in a gentle rhythm. I reached down and ran a cube of pineapple one last time over her mound, teased it at her opening like I was going to push it inside of her. Didn’t. I ate it instead. Ate it like I ate her, like I buried myself in the depths of her soft, wet, folds. I forgot myself in her. Against the terrain of her supple, shapely lips I worked my tongue. I worked my tongue over and back, through and against. I buried myself into her and she into the opening of me. My mouth fused against her, sucking, breathing her in. She was sweet salt, all honey and saline and bright minerals. She rocked against me, riding the waves of my desire. I felt her clit harden and retract. I slipped one finger in and her muscles flexed over me. Pushing. Receding. Throbbing. 

Was she close? I almost didn’t want her to be, almost wanted her to ride this cusp forever. Her stretched before me, her sex abundant in my mouth and lush with the waters of her lust. Fingering her my whole hand became saturated. Was it me drooling? Or was it that other mouth of hers? It was both, the two of us dissolving into one slippery, soaked, slimy pool of thirst. The whole time I ate her I reached back and massaged the swollen tip of my own craving. My cunt. My clit. In these moments I loved my body so much, and then I loved hers all the more. 

When it became apparent she could truly bear it no longer, I leaned back for a breath, watched her hips buckle and writhe against the marble flooring. Her robe, somehow, was still tangled about her ankles. Had she trod into the kitchen with it snaking about her? No matter, I crawled down, took it in my mouth. Slowly, I pulled it away from her body. She moaned. Spitting the robe out, I dove back in. Now it was my tongue tangling her, snaking over her body and circling the divine center of her pleasure. Her clitoris. All muscle and nerve endings and a so soft, delicate webbing of skin. This, this part of her. Between my lips. Me, sucking. Her, jerking, twitching. Me, holding her steady and firm in that one core of a place. Sucking, sucking. Her clit, my mouth. Sucking, flicking my tongue in a steady rhythm, fucking her. Now, now I wanted to make her come. Now she could have me. Now I would let myself have her.

Have you ever felt a pussy come against your mouth before? No? Well, it is Glory, Glory, Hallelujah. Have you ever felt creamy, elastic flesh suddenly spasm over your tongue, your finger? Heard moans sent skyward and thighs clenched tight over your ears so all you can hear is the drumming of a pulse? Your own pulse, or the other person’s? In that moment you don’t know. All you know is yes, yes, this is pleasure, this is velvet, this is sex.

Don’t worry. Monica returned the favor. Not that she had to, my pleasure was hers in that moment. But after I wiped my mouth and she toweled between her legs. After she donned a simple summer frock and I replaced my caterer’s apron. After the guests had come and partaken in Mezcal and pineapple and I, admittedly, had done the same. Then. Then Monica stretched me, resplendent and nude over her fur-lined bedding and I twitched against her. With her tongue she painted me like a canvas, and when I came it was like my body was singing into her. 

I still can’t believe it. Monica. Monica Moss. Sometimes you have to live it before you can really feel it. Her birthday is in a month, another party on the horizon. We’re thinking fondue.