The Stirring Spoon

We chose that particular hotel because it was on the beach and it had a kitchenette. It was off season, so it was cheap, and that’s just what we were looking for. We didn’t mind eating sandwiches and frozen dinners cooked in the microwave, as long as we were together. The room wasn’t particularly nice. The tile floors were sandy and the towels were worn and thin, barely big enough to wrap around the body, but the sticky sliding glass door looked out onto the ocean, a darkly romantic scene misted in a grey cloak of winter. It was a perfect holiday away from work, a quick getaway to reset our minds and our connection.

We spent the morning walking the deserted beach, huddled in thick wool sweaters to ward off the chilled breeze, our toes turned to little frozen blocks as we waded through the shallow surf looking for seashells. The wind combed through his hair, blowing the long messy curls into his eyes, blue grey just like the water and sky. I put my hand in his, small in large, cold in warm. I never could understand how he was so hot all the time, my own personal heater. He kissed my hair, salted and wild like his, and suggested we head back to the room.

“Take off your clothes and kneel on the bed.”

I shivered as I removed the salt crusted layers, my skin bristling with goosebumps. I was bristling elsewhere too. I knelt on hands and knees, my chilled toes hung over the edge of the bed, still stained and sandy from our walk. I heard him walk the few steps towards the kitchenette and grab something out of one of the drawers.

“Keep your eyes forward.”

I felt a tap on the pad of my foot, and a painful warmth spread through my frozen digits. Tap. Tap. Tap. The swats got harder, moving down my foot, over the arch and to the heel, then he repeated the process on the other side. It felt like a massage at first, the soft beating of my tender flesh sizzled with a slow heat, building until I hissed through my teeth and arched my back. He grabbed both of my feet in his warm hands, rubbing them, spreading the hurt until it began to reach my insides. He picked up his torture tool and began his rhythmic taps once again. From pad to heel, he brought my feet back to life. The pain crept up from feet to my ankles, buzzing inside my calves, tickling my thighs, until it reached my pussy with a soft pulse.

Now I arched my back for a different reason. Settling into the pain, my brain became unfocused on anything else but the need between my legs and the tapping on my feet. He paused for a moment, the silence brought me back to reality. I waited. My hips moved almost imperceptibly, wanting more. More taps, more touches. More.

I felt something touch my lips, a rigid plastic intruder spread them apart and slowly began to slide into my slick opening. He pressed the object deep inside of me, filling me, and I pushed back against it, wanting more. He fucked me with it, gently at first, until I began to moan and my thighs began to shake, and then he pushed it in harder and faster, hitting my cervix.

“You don’t even know what is fucking you right now.”

I didn’t care, and he knew that. The alien object was filling a hole, a need, and I blindly took it, bucking back onto it like it was his cock, like it would fill me with warm spurts of come.

“You’re going to come, aren’t you?”

He stated the obvious, and a hot blush crept to my face, shamed by how needy I was, how easy I was, how he knew that this would get me off. I pushed back even harder, crying out for more as he rammed the object deep inside me as fast as he could. As I came, he held it still, pressed deep inside as I convulsed around it, my fingers clutching the covers, tears clouding my vision. I shuddered and shook, my body’s violent reaction to this mystery object pulsed through me, my muscles involuntarily convulsing. When my breathing slowed, he pulled it out of me and dropped it on the bed in front of my face with a snorted chuckle.

The handle of the plastic slotted spoon was covered in a thick sheen of my juices. I wondered how many people had used that spoon to scramble eggs for breakfast. I wondered how many people would use that spoon to serve baked beans onto paper plates. I rolled over and laughed, his smiling face came in close for a kiss.

“You’re a dirty slut, aren’t you?”