The aroma of roasting turkey and sweet potatoes wafted through the house, mingling with the sound of distant laughter and clinking silverware. Thanksgiving, a day traditionally reserved for family, food, and gratitude, had taken an unexpectedly carnally delicious turn. I found myself pressed against the cool, wooden shelves of our pantry closet, the very heart of our domestic sanctum, as my husband’s urgent hands groped and pulled at my clothing with a hunger that could not be contained by mere gravy-laden conversations. His breath was hot and ragged against my neck, sending shivers down my spine that had nothing to do with the chilly November air seeping through the cracks of the old farmhouse.
The roughness of his unshaven jaw grazed my skin as he whispered in my ear, a stark contrast to the tender way his fingers traced the curves of my body. His touch sent sparks of desire through me, igniting a fire that burned away the last vestiges of propriety. My own hands fumbled with his belt, eager to unleash the beast that lay dormant beneath his crisp, holiday attire. Our movements grew more frantic, a silent symphony of need and passion that seemed to echo the crescendo of the oven timer in the kitchen.
As the pantry door swung shut, the outside world was muffled, leaving us in our own little cocoon of lust. The only light was the dim glow from the crack under the door, casting elongated shadows across our entwined limbs. His hands found their way to my breasts, kneading them with a fervor that made me arch my back and gasp for air. I could feel the hardness growing against my thigh, a promise of the release that awaited us both, a delicious secret that we were about to indulge in amidst the bustle of the holiday.
My husband’s kiss grew more demanding, his tongue invading my mouth as he lifted me onto the shelf, my legs wrapping around his waist. The jars of pickles and jellies jostled under my weight, a symphony of protest that went unnoticed in the cacophony of our passion. He ground his hips against me, the fabric of his pants the only barrier to the warmth and wetness that was already pooling between my thighs. The anticipation was a delicious torment, each passing second making the ache inside me more insistent.
With a swift tear, the sound of fabric giving way echoed in the confined space, and he was inside me, filling me with a sensation that made me want to scream. But the fear of being caught by the prying eyes and ears of our family and friends was a thrilling cocktail of terror and pleasure. Instead, I bit down on my bottom lip, tasting the coppery tang of my own blood, as he began to move with a rhythm that matched the beating of my heart. His hips pistoned, driving into me with a force that had me clinging to him like a lifeline. The sensations were overwhelming, a maelstrom of pleasure that threatened to drown me.
Each thrust sent waves of ecstasy crashing through my body, making me quiver and moan into the crook of his neck. He responded by tightening his grip on my throat, the pressure just shy of painful, a silent command to keep our secret hidden from the feast we were supposed to be preparing. The world outside the pantry was a blur, a mirage of normalcy that faded away with each stroke. There was only us, our bodies moving in a dance as old as time, the scent of our desire mixing with the smells of roasting meat and spices.
My husband’s movements grew more erratic, his breathing more ragged, and I knew he was close. I met his eyes, the hunger in them a mirror to my own, and nodded, giving him the unspoken consent to let go. He increased his pace, the friction between us setting my nerves alight, until I felt the crescendo building, my orgasm coiling tight like a spring. And then, just as the first stars of pleasure began to explode across my vision, his hand squeezed tighter, cutting off my air and sending me spiraling into a silent, powerful climax.
As I rode the wave of sensation, my husband followed, his release hot and wet inside me, the proof of our transgression. He held me there, his hand still tight around my throat, until our breathing synched again and our hearts stopped racing. We remained in that suspended moment, panting and trembling, until the sound of the oven timer brought us back to reality. With a wicked grin, he kissed me, a hint of dominance lingering on his lips. He pulled out and set me gently on the floor, my legs wobbly and my body still humming. We straightened our clothes, our secret shared glance speaking volumes as we stepped out of the pantry and back into the warm embrace of our Thanksgiving dinner preparations, ready to face the feast with a newfound zest for life and a shared secret that would only serve to make the day more memorable!
Sound like a ton of fun? You wanna help mommy stuff a turkey? I’ll be waiting Love!
Happy Thanksgiving!!!
lucy@thesincenter.com
