A Southerner in the Kitchen

She hadn't thought of honeysuckle in years. Then a couple of weeks ago she saw it growing by the roadside, along the fence, she couldn't seem to let go of the image completely. When he asked if he could see her tonight, the sweet, cool, wetness she'd tasted all those years before when she and her brothers played in the woods and took the nectar as their reward for "roughing" it, was once again on her mind.

She wondered if this would be a honeysuckle evening.

The heat was reminiscient of those long ago days when she ran free, skin caramelized by the sun and with hair suggestive of the whipped cream they often put on fresh capped strawberries. That freedom, skin and hair would be nice to conjure up once again. She knew he'd like it. He had a taste for the sweet stuff.

But she would make do with what she had. In the kitchen and in life, she could be rather creative with the right ingredients. Though she no longer possessed the blonde curls and she protected her now freckled face with heavy duty SPF, she knew that her willingness to venture beyond the norm was exactly what was called for this hot summer night.

Her skin seemed to almost sizzle as she extracated herself from the car. That gave her an idea.

When he arrived at her door, she called out that it was open and he should come on in. The room was dark and eerily quiet except for the whirrrr of the fan in the corner. Beside the fan, an ice bucket sat in a shallow puddle and an open bottle of white wine peeked from the melting ice.

He called her name. Then he noticed the aroma.

"Are you baking something?"

"I am," she said with the heaviest Southern drawl she could muster. "You come right on in here, you hear."

He walked toward the kitchen with curiosity tinged with apprehension. He'd been benefactor and victim of her creative scenarios before and while he relished them, he was also slightly afraid.

She stood barefoot on the white tile. She wore a calico apron that looked like it belonged in Mayberry but she was no Aunt Bea ... for the apron and a pair of white panties were all she donned. He laughed.

She faked a frown. "Are you not in the mood for my biscuits and strawberries?" The accent was getting even thicker.

"Oh yes, I am mah dear," he tried his best Rhett Butler.

She walked toward him and quickly took his ear lobe in her mouth, sucking and pulling at the same time.

"I could just eat you up," she taunted. "But first we have dessert. Then the main course."

She led him to a picnic blanket he hadn't noticed when he arrived. It was spread before the fireplace which was sans wood and filled with yet another ice chest. Inside were fresh strawberries, cans of whipped cream (the kind with which one can make the oh-so-cute-designs), chocolate bars, pints of ice cream, chocolate sauce, nuts, sprinkles, and a honey jar.

"Please, do get comfortable, kind sir," she teased as she pushed him toward the floor and grabbed at the pillows on the couch to somewhat soften his "fall."

"I'm thinking a cool, refreshing beverage might be in order," she motioned at the ice bucket. That's when he noticed the label was his favorite (and most expensive). He tried not to grab the bottle too greedily as he poured two glasses.

She was focused on the cooling goodies. She quietly took her drink and a long sip, seemingly studying her next move.

"I think that chocolate is in order."

She unwrapped the dark morsel and placed a piece between her lips. She moved toward him with determination and rubbed the candy across his lips. He bit. She sucked his lips as he took in the sweet. And, without his notice, she reached for a strawberry behind her and popped it into his mouth before the chocolate could completely melt.

"This ain't no Hershey's kiss!" As she played out the scene, she moved from Southern to country rather quickly he noticed.

"Please feel free to please your palate in any way you see fit," she motioned to the array. "I'm needed in the kitchen."

When she returned, the buttered biscuits were toppling off the plate she held in one hand. The other hand grabbed for the honey as she lowered herself onto his lap. He noticed the panties were now gone.

"Bet you didn't know what a girl could do with a little bit of flour and milk, huh?" she said as she fed him the now dripping biscuit.

"Don't I get the honey?" he queried.

"No, I do."

She placed the plate down. She had also untied the apron strings from around her neck and placed her cool breasts against his chest. (His shirt had somehow mysteriously disappeared when she was in the kitchen.)

She licked her way down his front and paused only momentarily at his waist as she unloosened his belt and tugged at his pants.

When he was gloriously exposed, she stared and sighed.

"Ah ... sweet mystery of life ..."

He was getting harder with each Southern drenched syllable she offered.

When she placed just a drop of honey on her finger and stroked his lips, he grinned with a young man's delight.

She placed yet another drop on his finger and licked slowly to remove it ... sucking a little longer than was needed on his fingertip.

Then her eyes went once again to the dessert she'd been thinking of throughout the day.

She poured just a trickle of honey on his now hard cock. She licked lightly. The taste of his own juices mixed in and "sweet and savory" took on a whole new meaning.

She went first to the base of his dick to catch the running sweetness and to suck teasingly and only briefly on his balls. Then she worked her way up, deftly rubbing her tongue along the shaft, back and forth, back and forth, removing all evidence of the golden elixir.

When she got to the tip, she softly pushed her lips down, down, down. He gasped as he realized she had fashioned another routine. He never knew quite what to expect when she was in one of her "come here, I'll go down, you behave" moods. He liked this Southern fried variation.

She picked up the pace. She was moving up and down his dick with cheerleader like enthusiasm. Her hair tickled his navel as she switched from side to side, drenching his pulsing cock first on the left, then the right with her saliva, wetting him to make it even easier to both massage with one hand and work her mouth along every glorious inch of him.

He seemed almost thicker to her tonight. Tempting her to ask for his growing presence in her pussy, the throbbing thickness only distracted her for a moment. She had no intention of straying from her plan now.

She worked herself into almost a frenzy with the sucking, licking, rubbing, and grabbing. She wanted him all. She wanted him deep. She wanted him now.

Soon, she had all she wanted and more.

"Fuck, oh, fuck, oh yes."

And the sweet taste of honeysuckle was hers once again. Shooting into her mouth with more volume and tenacity than any blossom had ever put forth.

"Ah ... now that's the Southern way," she said as she smiled and wondered what they might find to do with all that whipped cream.