14
Sploshing
Glancing at the clock in the staff room, I hope I haven’t fucked up my timing. I’m pretty confident Eastlyn should be showing up to have lunch this period. I do know for a fact she has lunch supervision next break, considering I made the schedule myself. I’ve also watched her long enough that I know her routine on these days is eating lunch in here around this time. And unbeknownst to her, I’ve decided to join her today. Even though I woke up with her in my arms, I want to steal a little more time with her before I’m away at board meetings for the next two days. I’ve grown used to seeing her at work everyday, and it isn’t often I can steal alone time where I can openly gawk and share all the dirty things I want to do with her. It worked out perfectly that she’s the only one on lunch this period. Might just be an act of serendipity.
Opening the fridge for my lunch, I grab the Tupperware holding a large spinach, goat cheese, and strawberry salad, along with a small plastic bag holding the container of poppyseed dressing East insists I’ll love, and my water bottle. Rabbit food was my only option for lunch because this was all Eastlyn had in her fridge, a situation she didn’t see an issue with, unlike me. Closing the fridge, I park myself at the long rectangular staff room table. And wait.
Removing the salad’s lid, I laugh at the six or so huge strawberries I persuaded Eastlyn to leave whole. Call me skeptical, but I’m pretty sure a salad should be a bunch of veggies—not fruit. Eastlyn had rolled her eyes and called me quirky, but she let me have my way. So, I can skip the salad and just eat the fruit, if need be.
I’d shown up at her house unannounced yesterday, needing to see her after a morning of playing basketball with Keaton and Philip at the YMCA. After having her in the shower, I convinced her to let me eat her for lunch, rather than go grocery shopping for the week like she’d said she needed to. By the time we were done, the store was closed, so I took her to Brass Tapps for wings. Watching that girl lick sauce off her fingers was an experience in and of itself. Who knew watching someone eat could be so hot? I think I may have developed a fetish. Eastlyn said it was called “gastronomic voyeurism”, and it turns out it’s a real thing. If Eastlyn keeps eating the way she did last night, I may need therapy. I was rock hard the whole time. Later in bed that night, I Googled various food fetishes, hoping I’d find one for the both of us, and I discovered—thanks to the Urban Dictionary, the concept of “sploshing”.
According to the UD, it’s a sexual way to experience food. Basically, you cover each other with a variety of hot, warm, and cold foods while naked, and enjoy the sensations each food might give you. They say eating off each other is optional, but wouldn’t that be the best part? I think getting to taste and sample all kinds of foods off Eastlyn’s sinful body would be all kinds of fun, and would lead to some very hot fucking. Fuck, yeah. Sign me the hell up.
By the time I was done my researching, I was super horny. I told her we were going to try being sploshers, and that I was pissed we hadn’t gone grocery shopping, after all. Thankfully, my girl eased my frustration by sucking my cock like a champ. So, it’s because of my own actions that I’m sitting here about to eat salad, my least favourite food. It’s my punishment for having an insatiable appetite for Eastlyn Hatfield and not letting us leave the house.
Picking up the small container of dressing, I shake it before dumping it on the greens, and stare at the spotty liquid as it pools like frog spawn in the spinach leaves. What now? Do I mix? Stir? I hate salad.
“Mr. Graves.” Eastlyn’s familiar voice is music to my ears. I was starting to think I might be eating alone.
“Ms. Hatfield.” I run my eyes down the length of her body, drinking her in slowly. She’s a sight for sore eyes in her black pencil skirt and pink silky blouse, which I’ve decided is one of my favourites because it shows me when her nipples are hard.
“You’re eating in here?” she asks, surprised, eyeing my spread, then walking to the fridge to grab her own.
“I am. I’ve got a meeting shortly. Figured I’d better eat now,” I lie.
“Makes sense.” She takes the seat across from me, placing identical Tupperware containers in front of her, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Great minds,” I say.
“I love salad,” she says, dumping the dressing in her bowl, then replacing the lid and shaking it. Laughing, I pick mine up and do the same.
“Copycat.”
“Or just not a fan of rabbit food,” I tease, removing the lid again, happy to see the spawn is now more evenly distributed.
Picking up her fork, I watch transfixed (I clearly am turning into a total gastro-whatever-she-called-it) as she wraps her lips around the tines of her fork, staring at how it breaches her supple lips, and the way they work to pull off bits of spinach.
Fuck me.
Maybe I was wrong about salad.
Salad is sexy.
Or maybe I just need therapy.
“You okay over there?” She cocks her head, smiling seductively. Little minx knows exactly what she’s doing.
“I’m great. Can’t wait to dig in.” My voice catches, yet I smirk with a thought of my own, and slyly tuck my fork out of sight.
Picking up a few pieces of spinach, I work the coated pieces between my fingers and thumb, rolling them up before dropping them in my mouth with an exaggerated sucking sound. I repeat, continuing to eat my salad with my hands, and each time I add a few extra touches: licking my fingers, slurping the wet dressing off my lips slowly while staring at her mouth, and darting my tongue inside the centre of rolled spinach, simulating what I did to her just last night.
“Jesus. Didn’t I give you a fork?” Eastlyn asks quietly, her eyes wide and looking a little hooded.
“Must have forgotten,” I say, picking up a strawberry and bringing it to my nose for a sniff. “Hmmm. Smells really good. Wonder how it tastes? I bet it will be delicious…” I wink at her before running my tongue along the berry from top to bottom, my eyes never leaving hers. I try really hard not to laugh when I see her sit up straighter, and I’m sure it’s because she’s having to clench that gorgeous pussy of hers at my performance.
“What are you doing?” Her voice fluctuates and I feel another win looming in the near future.
“Eating a strawberry.” I tilt my head to the side. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“You need a fork,” she scolds.
“I think I’m doing okay without it, don’t you?” I sink my teeth into the berry, letting the juice run down my chin.
She doesn’t say a word.
“It’s so wet and juicy. Tastes so sweet…” My eyes hold hers again, and a soft groan escapes her throat as her fork clatters to the table.
“I’m never making you lunch again!” She grabs up her lunch and bolts toward the door.
“You started it, Sprinkles,” I call to her retreating back. “I can’t help it; you’ve made me this way.” Laughing out loud, I decide to pitch the remaining salad and head over to Pita Pit. I pull out my cell phone and shoot her a quick text:
Me: Heading out to grab some real lunch now.
I smile, a wicked idea coming to mind.
Me: Hated the salad. Loved the dressing.
Me: Stopping by Wal-Mart for a plastic tablecloth. I’m thinking we defs need to explore this sploshing business further. Starting with your nipples coated in that creamy poppyseed dressing.
I chuckle, walking to my car.
Me: Sploshing might stain the sheets. Want to be safe. ;)
Seeing those three tiny grey bubbles, I feel like a kid on Christmas morning, with the biggest smile etched on my face while I wait for it.
Sprinkles: Remember that therapist we joked about? Maybe you really are in need?
I laugh out loud.
Sprinkles: I’m calling him.
Me: You’re my therapy. See you tonight. Be ready.
Sprinkles: Ugh. See you tonight (maybe grab some more strawberries?)
I’m typing a reply when my phone dings again, alerting me that she’s sent a photo this time.
It’s her, sucking on a fucking Popsicle.
Point, Eastlyn.