After throating my fingers over the toilet with the same sloppy vigor that Amy had shown my cock the previous night, I sprung into a long day of deliveries, finally checking out my mistress’s order at 8:30 PM. I sprinted out of my car to the door with a towering paper bag of groceries.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” I shouted, bursting through the front door of her dim, lamp-lit hallway.

“It’s okay!” I heard her shout from down the hall. The house smelt even more savory than usual. As I entered the kitchen, she was stirring a pot on the stove–only wearing a red apron. Her ass cheeks were jiggling with each motion of her hand, and she looked up at me with the polite, nonchalant smile of a dutiful house cook. “I’ve already started on the onions.”

I walked up behind her and placed the paper bag next to the stove. “It smells delightful,” I said, wrapping around her from behind, and kissing her neck.

“Oh, just you wait–this is one of my signatures. They have everything?”

“Mmhmm. What are ya gonna whip up?”

“A cucumber salad and spinach quiche!” She proudly declared. “Now make yourself useful and wash this in the sink.” She searched shoulder-deep through the brown bag and held up an especially large green cucumber over her shoulder.

“Remind you of someone?” I joked, kissing her bare, freckled shoulder, and walked over to the sink.

“I think he’s got a couple of inches on ya, but you definitely have him beat in girth.”

I looked back at her from behind as I washed my phallic, green competitor. The casual dexterity she displayed as she cooked in the nude was getting me unbelievably horny, as if the memory of that morning’s revelation had been completely wiped from my brain. I snuck up behind her stealthily, got on my knees, and began gently kissing each buttcheek, and rubbing one hand against her thigh.

She giggled. “You’re distracting me! You better not make me cut myself!” I brought my hand from her thigh to her pussy lips and moved up and down between them, until my fingers settled on her clit, massaging in hypnotic circles. She began moaning out as I started moving my tongue vertically against both her holes; her body quivering as I began rubbing the cold, wet cucumber along her inner thigh with my other hand.

“Ohhh fuck, David. You’re being a bad chef’s helper. You’re supposed to be helping, not–” Her sentence ended with a high-pitched, fluttering moan and she spread her legs further. Without even thinking, as if the cold vegetable had a sick, rotten mind of its own, I began sliding it between her pussy lips.

“That’s not what I think it is, is it?” she said, laughing and moaning as I began sliding it against her faster.

“Maybe we can do a human-vegetable comparison?” I replied, as I teasingly bit her asscheek.

“Oh fuck, put it in me,” she ordered, rubbing her tits and leaning away from the adjacent stove onto the marble countertop. I gently slid it into her pussy, going deeper with each push of the wrist.

“Ohhh, David.” I began fingering her other hole gently as I pushed in deeper. After a few seconds, she suddenly began looking through the brown bag again, and her hand emerged behind her with a dark green zucchini squash.

“Good idea,” I said, as I began performing a double penetrative culinary maneuver that would have won Amy’s modest suburban kitchen an honorary fourth Michelin star, had a food critic with any taste been lucky enough to witness it.

She was lying flattened on the countertop now, moaning uncontrollably. “I think it’s time for the next contestant,” she said smiling, looking back at me over her shoulder. I dropped the juice-soaked veggies onto the floor and whipped out my throbbing cock. She jiggled her ass up at me playfully, and I began fucking her, not with my usual smoothly sensual, passionate nature, but with a competitive energy that sought to make her forget what the fuck a vegetable even was.

“Ohhh, David. Just like that. Fuckkk–” I crashed into her harder and harder, and I noticed the cupboard above, filled with an array of herbs, oils, and spices, was shaking violently with us. Without warning, with my rabid animal instinct, I pulled out, grabbed her by the thighs, spun her around facing me, and picked her up, placing her down on the counter with her legs up. She looked into my eyes as she tore her apron off and threw it across the kitchen. I began pounding her even harder, rubbing her clit with one hand, lightly wrapping my hand around her neck with the other–and with one especially aggressive thrust, a hefty glass bottle of olive oil leaped from the overhead cupboard, narrowly missing her head.

“Oh fuck!” we both shouted together. The top of the bottle broke against the countertop, and Amy grabbed it as it began leaking. “Aw man, that’s the good Kolymvari stuff too, my friend sent it to me as a Christmas present last year, all the way from Crete. I’ll have to ask her for another bottle.” She wiped some oil off her hand and guided my cock back into her. She looked up at me cheekily as I resumed thrusting. “I kinda feel like a Greek goddess when you fuck me, like you’re a young slave boy sent to my palace to pleasure me.”

“That’s not that far from the reality, is it?” I said grinning, rubbing off some oil that had splattered on her stomach with my finger.

“I have an idea,” she declared, pouring the thick oil across her body, from her neck to her thighs. “Mine as well put it to good use,” she giggled, as she began rubbing the glistening fluid across her sparkling torso. She was shining under the vibrant kitchen light, biting her lip as I fucked her–moving her oily hands against her body and against my abs and shoulders. She closed her eyes as I pounded harder, firmly grasping onto her bouncing tits. “I’m gonna cum David, I’m gonna cum. Right there, just like that.”

“Ohh, fuck. I am too.” Her legs started shaking and she grabbed onto the edge of the countertop until her entire body began violently convulsing as she leaned farther backward. “Ughh” she cried out, as her leg vibrations slowly decrescendoed into a relaxed state of post-orgasmic rest, just as my body convulsed and I shot a thick load onto her stomach.

“Holy fuck, Amy–that was crazy.” The post-nut clarity kicked in as my eyes darted from cucumber, to zucchini, to glistening cougar. “That definitely takes the cake as my most creative sexcapade yet,” I said, panting and laughing as I leaned down to her face and kissed her.

“That was so much fun,” she replied, giggling and catching her breath. “I think you beat out Mr. Cucumber.” We simultaneously flared our nostrils as we noticed a putrid smell enveloping the kitchen. She leaned over and looked into the pot. “Welp, a crying shame: we burnt the onions. I’ll order a pizza.”

We stepped out onto her back patio–a Minoan queen and her youthful white bull, slathered in the nude with oil, reeking of spontaneous countertop sex and that magic bean of a fruit so beloved by holy and unholy gods alike. As I sat down on a wooden chair, she placed her naked, sticky body on my lap, and together we looked out on our quasi-Mediterranean vista as we indulged in the sacred slice of Dominossius–that Italian-American mediocrità; the culinary equivalent of shoving a cucumber in a potentially married woman’s pussy on a weeknight–not first on one’s list of dreamt-up pleasures, but impossible to turn down when confronted pie-to-face.

“Aren’t your neighbors gonna see us?”

“They’re all older than me, if you can believe it. They went to sleep hours ago.” She was lying on my lap horizontally, assaulting a wild string of cheese hanging from her slice.

“I know you’re comfortable, but I’m gonna have to get up and use the potty in a minute,” I said, giving her a garlicky kiss on the forehead.

“You know the drill, let me grab my wine first.”

“Amy, I can’t pee on you every time I have to go–don’t you want to make it a special occasion type of thing?” She ran into the house and grabbed a fresh bottle of wine, not hearing a word I said. She was already chugging it as she stepped back onto the patio. “I think you might have a drinking problem.”

“And you have a thinking problem–you do too much of it. Now drench me.” She pulled me up with her free hand and sat down on the chair.

“At least pour the wine into a glass, you’re gonna get an HOA complaint if any of your neighbors see you.”

She rolled her eyes, filled her glass to the brim, and drank as I pissed on her. She rubbed her pussy with her free hand, her muffled moans echoing into the expanding emptiness of the tall glass. As my stream was beginning to slacken, she stuck out her empty glass under my dripping cock. Smiling naughtily, she went through that vineyard-snob routine of swirling the glass and holding my signature Pinot Pipi up to her nostrils. She bit her lip and took the whole glass down in a long swig and swished it around in her mouth.

“Mmmmm, some hints of oak, a little fruity, a little nutty–”

“You’re crazy, Amy. No more drinking for the night. Consider yourself cut off. I draw the line at piss-drinking.” I grabbed the bottle from the table as she abruptly stood up to intercept, and with an almost comical old-timey banana peel fall, she slipped on the fresh puddle of urine and landed back on the chair, with her hair landing directly in the pizza on the adjacent table.

“Ouch, that hurt.”

“Yeah–looked like it, pizza head. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said solemnly, trying in vain to clean the strands of cheese out of her hair. “Maybe I did drink a little too much.”

“Well, at least you’re okay. I think we’re gonna need a mop,” I said, doing my best to walk around the puddle.

“No, I’ll get someone to clean it up.”

“Someone to clean it up? Do you have a maid or something?”

“I have a little crew that comes out every day–fixes up the garden, cleans and whatnot.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“I’m a rich woman, David.” Her words were slurring increasingly with each sentence. “I was left with more money than this hemorrhoidic taint of a neighborhood has in its entire net worth. I don’t care what these tasteless picket-fenced hicks think, I’m the queen of this association!”

A clue.

“I think you’re drunk, Amy.” She must have pregamed while she was cooking those ill-fated onions.

“You’re drunk.”

“Let’s get ya showered up and into bed,” I said, grabbing her from behind the back and underneath her legs, picking her up off the chair.

“Pick me up, my summer child!” She yelled as I struggled to open the back door with a free finger. “Oh you muscular muscle man, just like my college days–I was such a whore. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? With this old bag? This wrinkled-up vielle salope?”

I sat her down in her tub and scrubbed the flowing strands of mozzarella out of her hair, as she went on a drunken monologue about her well-traveled, eventful life: from her upbringing in Brooklyn, to her dip into Parisian academia, to New York again, briefly to Seattle, vaguely to the Southwest, to New York again–after that I lost track. (To be fair, she did too–somehow mixing up the Louvre with a rodeo museum in Scottsdale, Arizona.)

“Where did you grow up, stinker? What’s your story? I don’t think you ever did tell me,” she said, splashing some water up on me.

“Well, my mother’s from Bosnia, and my father was a shipbuilder from Virginia.” I began massaging some expensive vanilla shampoo through her hair.

“Oooo, good start already!” she exclaimed, poking at a cloud of bubbles.”I knew you had some Balkan in you.”

“My father had some family there–in Bosnia, and decided to travel there during the turmoil of the early 90s–I guess to see if he could get his family out, and ended up meeting my mother there.”

“He saved her!” Amy exclaimed, with a bubble clap of her hands.

“Yep, thankfully got his family into Prague with some distant relatives, and as the story goes, he and my mom fell madly in love, and went on a crazy sailing adventure across the Atlantic.”

“Atlantis!”

“Yep, that’s the one. I was probably conceived on their sailboat. I was born on the Florida coast, spent some of my early childhood island-hopping in the Caribbean, some back in coastal Florida, some in coastal Virginia, but most of it sailing with my parents.”

“Wow, a man of the sea.”

“I haven’t even seen the ocean since then, unfortunately. My father’s ship business unraveled by the time I was in elementary school, we started really struggling, got priced out of the coast, and moved here–lived here in town since I was eight years old, I think. Went to college, made the brilliant career choice of majoring in the arts, and now here I am, scraping dairy off your scalp.”

“What a good story,” she said, kissing my cheek.

“Could’ve had a better ending. Now let’s rinse that hair out.”

I dried her off and laid her down under her sheets. “I put a bottle of water next to your bed–stay on your side. I’ll see you tomorrow, Amy.” She turned to me and grabbed my cheeks with her hands, scrunching them rather painfully. Suddenly, with her right hand in front of my eye, and all its joints, fingers, wrinkles, and crinkles in full display–I saw a ring. It was silver, shining right in front of me. How had I not seen it? I must have been too distracted to notice it before.

“Why are you so kind to me, Mister David?”

I gained my composure as her half-conscious eyes looked up into me sweetly, as if I were about to break out into a rehearsed bedtime story.

“Because you buy me pizza, Miss Amy.” I replied and kissed her forehead.

“Doux voyage, mon jeune étalon!”

As I was walking out, I couldn’t help but open the photo album again. I found myself whispering aloud: “Are you dead, blue-eyed man? Did you leave her the money? Is that your ring?” I was met with an ocean-blue celluloid gaze of silence–as incomprehensible to me as the garbled français flowing out of my mistress' pepperoni-filled, drunken mouth.