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Junie was in the kitchen, fixing dinner. I could hear the banging pots and pans, the opening and closing of the refrigerator door, and whirring of the food processor.

“Michael, I need you.”

Junie stood at the granite counter, looking down into our large teak salad bowl. She looked scrumptious, poured into a tight pair of jeans, her hips cocked. The expression on her face, though, was pensive. “It needs something. Would you grate some Parmesan? In the fridge.”

I put down the wedge of cheese.

“Something’s missing,” she said, tossing the salad with the wooden tongs. “Gotta think.”

Crossing the kitchen to the sink, she turned and leaned back against the ledge. “Michael, do the cheese later. I need your help. Something’s not right with the dressing.”

Her eyes had that glint, with just a hint of smile.

“Michael, get one of those little glass dishes, would you please? And pour me some olive oil. Just a dab.”

I placed the dish next to her.

I leaned back and looked across the kitchen at Junie, her back to the sink about six feet away. We faced each other. She held me with her eyes.

Her left hand crept up to her blouse, over the taut line of her breasts and to the top button below her throat. She started unbuttoning, moving down at a leisurely pace, one button after another. Her eyes never wavered from mine.

The blouse fell open and her hands went to her breasts, encased in a frilly white bra with lace around the tops. Closing her eyes, she slowly ran her hands across the fabric of the bra. My cock started to strain at my jeans. I moved toward her.

“Stay there.”

While lifting and cupping her boobs, Junie massaged her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers. Her breathing picked up, deeper, a little faster. Her face was getting flushed. I could see her thighs clenching through the tight denim.

Pulling the lace down, Junie uncovered the tops of her breasts, exposing her erect, dark pink nipples. She raked them with her fingertips.

With a flick, she undid the clasp between the cups. Hefting her bare breasts in her hands, she palmed and pushed them into her chest with a slow circular motion. Her hips started to churn.

She dabbed a finger in the olive oil and coated first one nipple, then the other. After dipping her other fingertips in the oil, she swirled them across both breasts.

I started to unbuckle.

“Stop.” Her eyes were still closed as her fingertips brushed her tits and nipples.

Releasing a sigh, Junie wiped her fingertips on a paper towel. She unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down, revealing a black thong. Dropping her hands to her mound, she slowly outlined her vulva with her fingers.

“Junie …”

“Just watch.” Her eyes remained closed as she continued to outline her labia, swelling out on either side of the narrow fabric of the thong. Spreading her knees, she cupped her outer labia, and squeezed. Hooking the skinny straps of the thong with her thumbs, she pulled it down.

She ran her fingers along rim of her outer lips, stroking them up and down in languid movements. Bending her knees, she moved a hand behind her ass and up between her legs to her cunt. She circled the entrance of her vagina with a finger.

“Michael, take the olive oil.” Hoarse.

I picked up the dish and retreated to my side of the kitchen.

She plunged a finger inside herself, while her other hand vigorously worked her clit. She leaned forward, face flushed, her tits slathered in olive oil and hanging down.

“Drop your jeans.”

My dick sprang out of my pants, pointing up at the ceiling fan. I slathered olive oil on my cockhead and pumped my engorged shaft with my other hand, smearing the oil down the length of my dick. My balls jammed to the base of my throbbing dick. My eyes were glued to Junie’s pussy.

“Slower.” For a woman about three minutes away from a bone-shattering orgasm, she was telegraphing total control. I loosened my grip and stroked my straining cock at a leisurely pace, alternating palm strokes with light fingertip featherings.

The pressure in my balls and dick bordered on painful. It took all my will not to explode over the kitchen floor.

“Don’t come until I say.”

Junie slid to the floor, her back against the counter, her knees spread, her jeans and thong gathered around her ankles. Her cunt was glorious in its wet, wide and swollen splendor.

Spreading her outer labia with one hand, she worked her clit with the other, making vigorous little circles on her hard nub. As her hand picked up speed, Junie threw her head back, groaning. Her hips started to rock.

“Don’t come yet, Michael. Michael, don’t… Michael… no…”

Her body shuddered as her orgasm broke inside her. I clamped my dick in a death grip to keep from coming. I never wanted to do anything more in my life.

Junie slowly stood up, a little rocky. I marveled at the size of her red, aroused pussy.

The focus came back to her eyes. “I want you to come soon, Michael. Just not yet. Stroke your cock slowly.”

She picked up the salad bowl.

“Michael, can you hear me?”

I looked at her. My mouth wouldn’t work. I was on the edge, teetering at the point of inevitability, the instant when the load of cum would explode out of my cockhead.

“Michael, I want you to spray now. Across the room to me. Do you understand? Nod your head.”

I nodded, stroking faster. My hand was locked vice-like around my throbbing and pulsating shaft. I gripped my balls with my other hand and squeezed.

“Shoot hard, Michael. Launch your load like never before. Across the room.”

Junie positioned herself about five feet in front of me, holding the salad bowl at her waist.

I pumped my cock furiously, my knees bent, my hips thrusting. I was beating off like a teenager.

“Shoot, Michael, shoot!”

Powerful waves of pleasure erupted in my groin as I exploded, jism flying out of my cock in a thick stream across the kitchen. Junie moved the salad bowl back and forth as my spunk arched through the air. I kept pumping my gushing cock furiously.

“Good boy, Michael, very good boy.” She really sounded pleased.

I sank to my knees, cock in hand, a white thread of jism dangling off the end of my dick. Sweat was dripping off the end of my nose. The waves of pleasure wracking my body ebbed.

Looking up, I could a line of my splooge on the kitchen floor, gobs of creamy white. Junie held the salad under my nose.

“Look, Michael.”

Creamy white droplets of cum stood out against the dark green of the Romaine. While most of my load had ended up on the floor, Junie had caught my initial spray.

“Needed salt,” Junie said, putting the salad bowl back on the counter. “Now grate that cheese. I’m hungry.”