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?