Written / Cooking On High


Chapter 42

Much to Fry’s surprise, they’d gone out to Gillman Rock. And they’d had a nice time. They were talked out on any serious topics, so Fry chatted amiably and French dozed.

They returned to French’s house later that night and retired to the bedroom. In all, Fry considered it a good day, that kept getting better.

French couldn’t have agreed more. She was experiencing the most gentle massage she’d ever had, and possibly the most arousing. She lay on her stomach with her head rested on her arms. Fry had climbed onto her back and lay along the length of her, kissing, sucking, but mostly licking at her shoulders and the back of her neck. It was a mix of relaxing, gentle and stimulating. Every now and again, Fry would reach down and brush her hands over French’s rear and hips to remind her that she hadn’t lost focus of her initial intent. Fry could do that, she could lose focus. French had found it amusing that Fry could get so wrapped up in a particular physical sensation. But after the amusement, frustration set in pretty quickly.

French was all for foreplay, in theory. In practice, she was a positive goal-oriented, immediate gratification junky. Fry was into sensations of all kinds. It seemed like she could get as turned on by kissing French’s shoulder blades as she could by a lot of other things. But unlike French, who had to do something about it immediately, Fry seemed happy to bask in it. French had become familiar with the glassy-eyed look Fry got whenever she began to get carried away and the danger of her stalling, as French had come to see it, increased exponentially.

French, being a ‘can do’, strategic sort of person, figured out that if they had sex immediately, then she could let Fry do her thing. That had been the case earlier that night. Not that it wasn’t making her wet to have a bundle of heated arousal moving all over her like that, it’s just that after an orgasm, it didn’t make her near murderous with need.

“You feel so good.” Fry took a brief break, to compliment her host.

“Umm, hmmm.”

“I haven’t forgotten this.” Fry brushed a hand up along French’s thigh and hip.

“Good thing too, I’m about ready to turn you in for neglect.”

“You poor thing.” Fry nipped at a convenient shoulder. “I’m terrible to you aren’t I?”

“No one would believe the abuse I put up with from you.” And she meant it. Any one night stand she’d ever had would have a hard time recognizing her behavior with Fry in bed. Was this the difference between using and liking your partner in sex?

“No, I doubt they would.” Fry sunk her teeth into French’s shoulder muscle, giving her a good, hard bite. She’d learned quickly the effect that got. In no time she’d been flipped on her back and had a full sized, fully aroused, and extremely energetic chef on top of her.

French wasted no time, she parted Fry’s legs with her thigh and began to move against her in a smooth rhythm. Fry was a sucker for a good rhythm. “Let’s see how you like it for a change.”

Fry moaned at the sensation. She reached forward to touch French, who backed away. “Ah, ah. Hands to yourself. This is sensory deprivation time for you.”

“You’ve got a funny idea of sensory deprivation.” Fry moaned again as she felt French brush a hand up the outside of her thigh.

“You haven’t even begun to suffer. Just you wait.” French taunted her victim.

Who was Fry kidding? French knew her greatest weakness. Fry needed to touch with her hands. She hadn’t realized how dangerous letting French know that so early on could be. She lay there, feeling the pressure build within her. She wasn’t into pain, nor was she too proud to give in. “Please.”

“I don’t think so Missy. We’re going to see exactly what you can take.” For a brief, torturous moment, French slipped her hand between Fry’s thighs. She was soaked. The chef’s determination faltered, but then, as was often the case with French, she was able to dig deep and bolster her resolve.

Fry did the only thing a person in her position could do. She began to touch herself. It wasn’t a substitute she would have taken given the choice. It was an offensive manoeuvre.

“That’s cheating.” French complained.

“You said, ‘hands to yourself.’” Fry explained. She was pleased to see the look of incredulous consternation appear on the chef’s face.

French hated being out maneuvered in any field. But if you were going to lose, there were worse ways to do it. She watched, fascinated as Fry’s hands wove patterns over her own abdomen and breasts. She was getting lost in her own sensations damn it, the woman was unstoppable. And Fry’s body wasn’t the kind of thing you could sit idly by and watch be caressed. It was more of a hands on event.

French caved and leaned down to kiss the traitor. Within a millisecond Fry was attached to her, touching everywhere. Of course, that’s when French lost track and started to move on instinct. Feeling Fry moving beneath her did things to her that she wasn’t sure she understood. It had an effect on her sense of time. As in, hours later, she’d realize that they hadn’t eaten, or slept, or done anything else two bodies might need to do if they weren’t otherwise occupied.

And being in bed with Fry was an otherwise occupation she thought she could make a go of for a while. She felt incredible, and she knew how to move. That was important to French, who was big into movement.

Continued in Chapter 43

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