kitchen tropics

Via request: feet.

*

She has been on her feet all day, baking. The kitchen has puddles of warmth lingering on the counters and in the air. Splotches of white and brown powder are lounging on surfaces, tiles, hair, shirt, shorts, bare feet, a dusting that hints of snow, but feels like silk and fields. Her hands are smudged in chocolate and her skin smells of cinnamon. Her body wants to collapse, one part on top of another, like the bowls, spoons, pans heaped in the sink, a careful arrangement of avalanched pause.

When he walks in, she is wiping down the counters with a wet cloth, her shirt slipping over the edge of her right shoulder, revealing the smooth slope, the cliff. Her hair is escaping from the band in the back, breezey waves framing her face. She turns to him, smiles, mouths a tired hello. The wind-tossed, work-drenched look always does him in.

When his hands slip to her waist and press her body to the floor, she doesn't have the ability to even feign resistance. She is a pile of dough, heat, ingredients, and it is his turn to create.

He finds the coconut butter, jar still open on the counter from its daily duty, and cups the substance into his hands. He lifts up her feet, a canvas for his tropical paint, his bakery massage, and rubs the butter from her toes, along her arches, forming a dripping, thick mess that trails up her calves and sporadically plops onto the floor in a work of modern design. When he unzips his pants, a rawness in his eyes, amusement shaping his lips, she knows what is going to come next, and she's not too tired to let out a bashful laugh.

His hardness molds between her arches and begins its frantic plunge back and forth. Her feet are his makeshift cunt, the air is a private beach, and the chaos of baking suddenly seems to have more worth.