Spaghetti and Sausage

Mark stretched Dick's cock across the cutting board and traced a fine incision down the middle of the urethra with the sharpest knife from his mom's Home Shopping Network Cutlery Collection. Ten chops an inch apart from the base to the head and he scooped the 20 pieces up, sliding them off the knife and into the pan. Where they sizzled in the hot grease of the hundred or so pieces of Italian sausage already searing.

He swiveled the bill of his red throwback Giants cap to the back of his head, then washed his hands thoroughly under the hottest water he could stand, flicking them dry and rubbing them on his matching red throwback Giants jersey, which displayed the number of his all-time favorite New York Giant, Rodney Hampton. He snapped his fists out to pop his elbows and cricked his neck side to side, both cracks echoing in tune to the Joy Division playing on the kitchen radio:

"Don't walk away in silence
Don't walk away"

Grabbing the tongs, he flicked the frying pieces of meat over ten at a time, lightly pressing each onto its opposite side. He swirled on his heel, grabbed the olive oil, and swirled back, raining another cup over the sausages. Five minutes of inhaling the steaming smoke wafting from the pan under his nose and he dumped the pan's contents into the large pot of bubbling tomato sauce. He turned as Sarah walked in behind him.

"It smells great in here," she said. "Are you sure you're not Italian?"

"Only if you are-"

"No. Thank God."

Mark laughed, then turned and set to boiling the angel hair pasta: a pot of water, a dollop of olive oil, a carton of the skinniest noodles he could find, and a flick of the knob to HI. He shut off the radio, held up a finger to his mom, then ran out of the room. Before she could say anything through the door, he was back in the kitchen, his hands behind his back. "I got you something-"

"Mark-"

"I mean, you bought it, it was your money, but I picked it out-" He held the gift out.

Sarah grabbed it and unwrapped it. Then fell back in the chair laughing. "Jesus Christ, boy-"

Mark's smile cut his face in half. "What?"

Sarah shook her head. "You know your momma-" She laid the box containing the 12" X 10" extra-thick-veined dildo on the table and jumped up and hugged Mark.

"Ooh, my noodles!" Mark ran to the stove, and in what seemed one motion, turned it off, strained the noodles, prepared two heaping plates of spaghetti, and slid them under his and Sarah's noses.

They ate in grinning silence - except for the occasional elbow snap, neck crack, or snort of snot - until Mark watched his mom swallow her last bite. "You like?"

"It was fucking delicious, Mark. Really, you should be a chef-"

Mark smiled. "How'd you like the sausage?"

"It's what made it-"

"I used two kinds, Italian and a really rare German sausage that's hard to find. But I got a good deal on it-"

"You're the best-"

Mark sighed. "Yeah-" He giggled.

"Asshole-"

"Moi?"

Sarah leaned back in her chair and unsnapped the top button of her jeans. "I'm full-"

"Good-"

She looked around, her eyes finally settling on Mark's plate as he forked up the last bits of his meal. "So where's Dick?"

"Dick?"

"Yeah, your boyfriend-"

Mark pushed his plate forward as he swallowed the last piece of Dick's cock. "I don't know. I like to think Dick's like God, that he's in all of us-"

"But you don't believe in God-"

"No, no I fucking don't-"

Mark collected both plates, set them in the sink and turned around. He shared another smile with his mom, then unsnapped the top button of his jeans, which fell to his ankles without a sound.

Ham and Sausage

The aroma that makes his tongue tickle. A slit of light through the door. Voices. Closer. A peek. Just a peek. Him. Sitting. Her. Standing. Her eyes on his cock through his pants. His hard cock through his pants.

-Mark's favorite is ham?

-Yeah. He says he likes anything that'll make the Jews and the Muslims hate him even more.

Laughter.

-That's Mark.

-Yeah. A sigh.

-You know Mark and I are boyfriends, right?

-So you're gay too?

-No, I'm bi. Like Mark.

-Mark's not bi.

-He fucks girls.

-So?

Laughter.

-I fuck girls.

-I know.

-You do?

-Mark tells me everything. And I tell him everything. We're best friends.

-Oh, what else has he told you?

-That you have the biggest dick he's ever had in his throat. Or ass.

Blushing. Giggles. Sighs. Averted gazes. Then contact. Eye contact.

-And you know, Mark and I share everything.

-Oh?

-Everything.

Another look to the crotch. Panties caress the floor. The skirt hitches. Effortlessly. A quick, deft pirouette. The oven door hits the floor. The screech of the bottom rack. Warmth and the scent of an almost-burnt dinner waft through the ever-widening slice of the open door.

Baggy jeans baggier around ankles. Cock dripping pre-cum like he's never seen before. A moan as he enters from behind, her legs straddling the oven door. And the meat. Pump. Pump. Pump. Moans. Increasing. In volume and frequency. A small yelp as he lunges all the way in. And grinds.

Her head turned over her shoulder. -You can come in me. It's okay. I can't have kids anymore. You better come in me. You faggot.

Ten or fifteen or twenty more full-length thrusts, his hands wound through her hair so that he can't tell if he's pushing in or pulling her back on it. Until his ass shakes and he falls on her back, reaching for her tits.

A plop. A slap against the leg. A snap and a zip. The squeak of the chair. Two fingers on her clit, two more on her tit. Rubbing. Scratching. Circles. Pistoning.

A loud moan. A squat. A steady stream of come. Male and female. A further squat. A smack of cunt against pig. Sliding. Back and forth.

Metal jarring metal. The warmth recedes. Panties disappear. Sponge meets cunt. Then sink.

Khakis wet. The shirt stretched down. A hand against the door. Push.

-Mark!

-Hey!

-What's going on, guys?