I don't spend much time in any sort of kitchen, really. No one in my family cooks much, and my kitchen table is actually in a half-dining-room area caught in the triangle of the stairs, the living room, and the actual kitchen. So, while whichever laptop at my mother's I am using usually rests on the kitchen table, I am rarely in the kitchen itself.
No, it's not my kitchen that came to mind when I read the prompt, which I got through Twitter on my phone in the middle of class one day. It was my boyfriend's kitchen. Particularly, my boyfriend's kitchen counter. And though this deems to digress from the prompt itself, it doesn't bother me too much. This is a place for confessions and truths, after all, and this is one that seems to have been surfacing in my mind a lot lately.
When my boyfriend and I started going out, I was able to take the bus to his house straight after school for one main reason—my mother didn't know we were together. I also told her I was going to a different friend's house every so often, so it hid some of the frequency with which these rendezvous actually occurred. (Using the word rendezvous seems over-dramatized, but it's the closest I can come to what they actually were.) At any rate, what happened was I was able to go home with him straight away after school and stay for hours. At least two of those hours were completely unsupervised—just him and me, and his dog, who is adorable, and who always managed to trip us as we walked in his front door, too wrapped up in our kissing to notice him getting underfoot.
Let me say this now to avoid misconceptions—we did not have sex then, and we have not had sex yet, and we have no immediate plans to change the fact that we are both virgins right now. This, of course, doesn't mean that we didn't take advantage of the supreme amount of alone time given to us. We most certainly did. Most times we'd go into his room, shut the door, and be generally all over each other until we either reached a limit or at least one of us was too strung out and high up and full of sleepy endorphins to keep going. There were times I think he came three or four times in an hour and a half, and that was before I'd even started giving him the hand-jobs. So, yes, we did enjoy the time alone. Very much so.
After we'd decided to stop being completely horny adolescents for the time being, we'd usually end up wandering into his kitchen for food or something to drink. One of the first times we did this, I ended up leaning with my lower back resting on the edge of his counter and my hands behind me to support my weight as he rummaged through the fridge. I can't quite remember why, but he gave up his search for food and turned back to me, and suddenly he was pressed up against me, his entire body resting inch-to-inch along mine. We started kissing, but I couldn't focus on it—my mind was completely consumed by the feeling of his strength pressing me up against the hard edge of the counter. His hips were hard on mine, and the solidness behind me only added to the thrill.
I can't really explain why making out in that spot turns me on so much. Perhaps its the way it seems like he's in total control, like a 1950s husband come home from a day at work to find his wife in the kitchen. I think a lot of it is the domination aspect of it in general, really. Both my boyfriend and myself like to be under someone else's control, and I happen to be better at switching than he is, so I end up in the driver's seat, so to speak, much more often than I'd like. But when he presses me up against the almost-sharp edge of the Formica counter top... my mind goes blank and my knees nearly give out, every time, and I don't think he knows it.
Now, I'm not a person who fantasizes a lot, unlike a few of my friends who will text me nearly every day with some new, kinky location for a future sexual exploit. But I do fantasize about this. I want to get to the point someday where he's more comfortable with being in control, and I want him to take me into his kitchen, pin me up against the counter, and fuck me.
I want it to be rough. I want duct tape over my mouth and maybe around my wrists. I want a purple-black-blue bruise across my back where the edge of the counter dug into my flesh. I want it to throb like a brand for days, a reminder of it all. I want every bit of him pressed onto every bit of me, skin on skin, in someplace as mundane and seemingly taboo as the middle of his parents' kitchen. (Because its not really his, is it? No. Not really.)
So... there you have it. One leaf about something I do in the kitchen... or will do. Someday. I hope.
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