Lisa stood barefoot at the kitchen counter, still wearing that stupid yellow Miss Banana sweater she’d thrown on after her shower. The sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and the hem barely covered her ass. She was trying to chop carrots for tomorrow’s lunch while the TV in the living room droned some Swedish true-crime documentary neither of them was really watching.
Michael kicked off his work boots by the door, the heavy thud echoing through their small apartment. He dropped his keys on the side table, walked straight into the kitchen, and pressed himself against her back without saying a word.
“Long day?” she asked, not turning around.
“Too fucking long,” he muttered, voice low. His hands slid under the sweater, finding bare skin. No panties. Of course. She’d been teasing him with texts all afternoon.
He groaned against her neck when his fingers slipped between her legs and felt how wet she already was. “Jesus, Lisa…”
She laughed quietly, knife still in her hand. “Don’t start something you can’t finish. Dinner’s almost—”
He didn’t let her finish the sentence. He reached past her, turned the stove off with one quick twist, then grabbed her hips and spun her around.
Their mouths crashed together—sloppy, hungry, no romance, just need. She tasted like the spearmint gum she’d been chewing earlier. He tasted like coffee and the cigarette he’d smoked on the way home.
Lisa dropped the knife on the cutting board with a clatter. Her hands went straight for his belt. Metal clinked, zipper rasped down. She pulled his jeans open just enough.
His cock sprang out—thick, uncut, already heavy and half-hard. The foreskin was still mostly covering the head, shiny with the first drop of pre-cum. Lisa wrapped her fingers around it and gave a slow stroke, peeling the skin back until the fat pink tip was fully exposed.
“Fuck,” Michael hissed through his teeth.
She sank to her knees right there on the cold kitchen tiles.
The first lick was lazy, dragging from base to tip, tasting salt and skin. Then she took him deeper—lips stretching around the girth, tongue flat against the underside. Michael’s hand found her hair immediately, not guiding, just holding on.
She sucked hard, cheeks hollowing, letting spit drip down her chin. Every few bobs she pulled off to breathe, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening cockhead. She looked up at him with messy blonde hair falling in her face, eyes watering slightly.
“You’re so fucking big today,” she mumbled, voice thick, before diving back down.
Michael’s hips jerked. “Keep talking like that and I’m gonna come in your mouth.”
She pulled off with a wet pop. “No. Inside. I want it inside.”
That was all it took.
He hauled her up by the arms, turned her around fast, bent her over the kitchen counter. The carrot pieces rolled off the cutting board and scattered. Neither of them cared.
Lisa pushed her ass back, arching. The sweater rode up her back, exposing everything. Michael kicked her feet wider apart, lined himself up, and pushed in one long, steady thrust.
She gasped—sharp, real, not performative. “Fuuuck—slow down a little—”
He didn’t. He was already buried balls-deep, her tight heat gripping every inch. The stretch burned in the best way. She braced both hands on the counter, knocking over the salt shaker.
He started fucking her hard, fast, no warm-up. Skin slapped skin. Wet, obscene sounds filled the tiny kitchen. Each thrust shoved her forward, her tits bouncing under the soft cotton sweater, nipples stiff against the fabric.
“Harder,” she panted. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”
Michael grabbed a fistful of the sweater at her lower back, using it like a handle. He slammed in deeper, feeling her pussy flutter and squeeze every time he bottomed out.
“Gonna fill you up,” he growled. “You want that? Want me to come inside you again?”
“Yes—fuck yes—do it—”
He switched angles, hitting that spot that made her legs shake. She moaned loud—too loud—and then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
“Neighbors,” she whispered, half-laughing.
“Let them hear,” he grunted, not slowing down.
A few more brutal thrusts and she was coming—hard. Her whole body locked up, thighs trembling, pussy clamping down so tight he almost lost it right then. She bit her own hand to keep quiet, but small desperate whimpers still leaked out.
That was it for him.
Michael buried himself as deep as he could go, hips flush against her ass, and came.
Thick, hot spurts flooded her. He groaned low in his throat, grinding slow circles while he emptied everything inside. Pulse after pulse. She could feel it—every twitch, every jet hitting her walls. Her pussy milked him greedily, pulling more out until he was completely spent.
For a few seconds they just breathed—ragged, heavy—still connected.
Then reality snapped back.
The TV was still playing. A car alarm went off somewhere outside. The chopped carrots lay scattered on the floor like orange confetti.
Michael pulled out slowly. A thick white rope of cum immediately followed, sliding down the inside of her thigh. Lisa reached back, scooped some of it with two fingers, and brought it to her lips—more out of habit than anything else. She sucked them clean, tasting them both.
“Jesus,” he muttered, zipping himself up with shaky hands. “You’re gonna kill me one day.”
Lisa straightened, tugged the sweater down over her dripping pussy. She could already feel more leaking out, warm and sticky. She grabbed a paper towel from the roll and pressed it between her legs, laughing under her breath.
“Shower. Now. Before it drips on the floor.”
Michael smirked, still catching his breath. “You first. I’m gonna turn the stove back on before we burn the fucking apartment down.”
She rolled her eyes, waddled toward the bathroom with her thighs pressed together. Halfway there she stopped, looked back at him over her shoulder.
“Next time,” she said, voice low and teasing, “you’re eating me out after you come in me.”
Michael groaned like he was in pain. “You’re evil.”
She just grinned and disappeared around the corner.

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