Sinful Sunday Week # 22

Welcome to another Sinful Sunday!  Today’s judge is last week’s champion and second-time judge Gingerandgreen!

This week we’re starting off with the newly announced Virgin Award, so if you’re new to Sinful Sunday #flashfiction, or even new to flashfiction in general, come on and play with us! If you’re unfamiliar with the usual Sinful Sunday Flash Fiction contest rules, please check them out. You must use the theme, both the photo prompts and word prompt in some way. Have fun with it, and synonyms are accepted! The word minimum is 100, maximum 200, and don’t forget to include your word count and twitter handle!



Word prompt:

Kitchen: 1. Casual term for the abdomen, the belly, the stomach. 2. 19th Century British term for the female genitals. See vagina for synonyms. (The traditional definition for kitchen, as in a room or area where food is prepared and cooked, is acceptable, too!)

Photo prompts:


Get those steamy thoughts going! You have until midnight EST to get your flash fiction in!


  1. I looked back at him sprawled across the bed, beautifully naked, his head hanging backwards off the side at an uncomfortable angle. I remembered the feel of his waist tight between my knees, his chest hard and cock deep inside me, his fingers pulling and twisting at my nipples as I rode him into unconsciousness. Having now experienced his apparently natural abilities, I’d never have guessed that he was a virgin.

    Wearing only black lace, I padded barefoot into the kitchen, mentally running through Nanna’s recipe for cherry pie. Scott would need sustenance when he woke, before he took me again, and I needed a distraction while I gave him time to recover. Starting with the pastry, I mixed and measured, kneading the dough out on the bench.

    Absorbed in my kneading, and a little daydreaming, I didn’t hear him move up behind me, wasn’t aware of him until he pressed against me, his cock needy against my lower back.

    “Keep kneading,” he murmured, slipping his fingers beneath my lace, unerringly finding my clit and working me to a rapid climax. My knees released and we both slipped to the floor, all thoughts of cherry pie replaced by him.


    200 words

  2. Pleasure.


    From the pit of his belly to the tips of his fingers and toes. He is consumed, burned inside-out as every synapse fires.

    A weak swimmer in a massive swell, he is picked up by the wave, the ground swept out from beneath his feet. It sends him tumbling to the shore, gasping for air and flopping about with all the grace of an out-of-water fish.

    He pants. “So … good.”

    “Uh-huh.” She climbs off him, her body twinging with the release just beyond her reach. She was close, so close.

    She slides black lace up her legs while he continues to murmur and lazy-laugh, sprawled naked and sweat-damp across her bed.

    In the kitchen, she slams a fist into a ball of dough.

    Why does she always find the pretty, dumb ones? The ones who grab her hip at just the wrong time, who alter their rhythm and send her tumbling from that coveted peak. The ones with clumsy fingers and no understanding of female anatomy.

    Thump, thump, thump.

    He stumbles from the bedroom, half-hard again already

    Flour coats her breasts, he groans and shudders inside her.

    He makes coffee.

    She decides to bake bread.

    @shellisthimbles 198 words.

  3. “If you want to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.” Carl Sagan’s mellifluous voice wafted over them from the other room, Cosmos ethereal soundtrack providing an atmosphere of calm, relaxed intellectualism as Janine set about kneading dough on the kitchen counter. She glanced back at Gary’s body, sprawled out on the bed, and her smirk was hidden by the cascade of her hair around her face. He looked so sweet now, so unlike the kind of person who’d say those filthy, degrading, horrible things in the throes of passion. She pressed a hand to her midsection with a delighted shiver, remembering how she promised to do every single thing that came out of his mouth until the timer on the bedside table went off.

    She’d stripped after her exertions, tossing the cook’s whites aside, and put the dough into the breadmaker. There would be plenty of time to clean up before it was ready to make the sandwiches Gary had asked for, and she needed every bit of it. Between the cooking and the cleaning, even without the euphoria hangover from the evening’s ultimate climax, it was going to be a lot of work.

    But her biggest concern right now was wondering how sick she was going to get of Sliced Gary sandwiches.


  4. Your name is an echo inside my chest. My heart pumps blood laced with your touch through my veins. Sometimes I feel like I’m not strong enough to handle it.

    No matter how much thinking about you hurts, I can’t stop myself. Impossible as it might be, you are a part of me.

    The sheets on my back smell nothing like you, but I can use my imagination. I use my hands to rekindle the fire your skin would bring.

    I think of you, wearing black lace in my kitchen with your back to me. I think of circling your waist and kissing the back of your head. I think of pulling apart the bow that tied together your underwear. My fingers twitch at the memory.

    I crave your presence.

    I’ve never felt so much pain in exchange of my release. It’s the punishment I give myself for your absence.

    I call for forgiveness.

    I come with the image of your ghost behind my eyelids.

    I need you to be alive more than ever tonight.

    175 words.

  5. Antonio Angelo says:

    No sex until marriage, she had laid it out plain and simple right from his first unsolicited comment on her ass as she walked to work. That was months ago and he had continued undeterred with compliments, then conversation, and finally flowers. He had told her he had been watching her walk past his little shop for months and she found that adorable.

    The rules for her were simple; if he wasn’t willing to pledge before God that she was forever he could go somewhere else. He at first thought he could overcome this but soon learned she was committed to celibacy and he found it irresistible.

    Last night he had popped the question over a dinner neither could afford. It had resulted in the most amazing kiss, that kiss walked home with them found its way to the couch, and then the bedroom and they had been so close to forever. The morning light broke through before he could. He lay there erect and she left the bed still a virgin. He could hear her pounding bread in the kitchen and she heard him pounding something else in the bedroom, both had tears in their eyes.
    199 words

  6. Flour dust covered Tera’s arms to her elbows and her back and shoulder muscles flexed each time she kneaded the dough on the cutting board. Randy stood to the side, hovering protectively outside her line of site, the need to knead her swaying breasts squeezing his balls tight against his raging hard-on.

    A flash of motion at his side made him turn his head. Virgil eyed Randy’s sub with appreciation. “Where did you find her?”

    Randy gave a half-smile. “In the kitchen.”

    “Love what you’ve done with the place.” Virgil reached own and adjusted his bulging groin, his gaze fixed on the lacy boyshorts covering Tera’s ass. “May I taste?”

    Randy shook his head. “Can’t have too many cooks in the kitchen.”

    “Can I watch, then?”

    “Be my guest.” Randy slipped behind his little baker and slid a hand down her curved cheek, inserting his fingers between her legs. Her little gasp and the scent of her arousal shot blood straight to his cock. “What are you doing, sweets?”

    “I’m kneading, Sir.”

    He threw his head back and rubbed her clit. “What else do you need?”

    She gasped. “You, Sir.” His gasp matched hers.

    196 words

  7. I kneaded the dough hard against the granite kitchen worktops. He always slept later than me. Sometimes I just sat watching him sleep with his neck bent back. After forever together it still looked uncomfortable to me, but most the time I got up and baked.

    “Mmm, smells good, baby.”

    He slipped his arms around me, tracing my body, pausing at my chest, slipping one hand in the cup of my bra, his other pushing my hair away from my neck, kissing it.

    My hands stalled and he whispered. “Keep kneading.”

    I did as he said as his hands and lips wandered the back and front of my body. I gasped. I felt his grin against my neck, he turned me, lifting me, kissing me everywhere he could reach, covering us both in more flour. His hand traced up my leg, slipped into the black lace of my underwear, tracing my clit and then he ripped my underwear, his tongue replacing his hands, I arched toward him, gripping his hair as I came.

    “Still needing?”

    “No, but I’m far from done.”

    I pulled him toward me and he grinned as we fell against the flour covered surface together.

    198 words

  8. The Patron

    I knead bread; slam the dough against the counter with a duplicitous touch. The yeast is dead. It will not rise. These were lust-less moments. A hand to thigh as honey. A mouth to neck as milk. This was comfort, not a prelude.

    “Are you hungry?” He asked, bright and fawning. My coltish darling, my tenant

    His fingers brushed the small of my back and I was starving. Always feeding, never fed.

    He released a breath and with one long zip, my dress drifted to the flour-strewn floor.

    I dragged my parched lips over dewy skin, slaked my thirst on his unpracticed thrusts.
    I cannot be for him. Him, the dreamy-eyed love I’d left writhing alone. So greedy. So soft. Did he know I watched him gripping and tugging, his cock still glistening with my wetness? A bitten lip, cherry ripe. Was that my name he whispered? He should find a nice girl. The grocery clerk, maybe. Young and fresh. I tell him so.

    “Let me paint you.” He laughed.

    I nodded. Unable to resist his worshipful gaze. Undressed and undone by my artless artist. This was how it all began.

    Word Count 197

  9. Needing less than a trip to a therapist but more than a self-help book, she leapt from the bed and walked toward the kitchen. A bag of flour plopped onto the counter, along with a lone tear.

    Once mise en place was complete, she took out her frustration on the ingredients before her. Pour, push, pound–her arms wreaked out a shape, her hips swaying as she tortured the emergent dough.

    As smooth as a baby’s bottom, the soon-to-be-bread nestled in the bottom of a bowl; she began to clean the counter, salty trails along her cheeks now ghosted with flour.

    “Love, I’m sorry. I’m just being selfish because I’m scared,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled her into his chest, his hands clasped together over her belly. The tension left her as she slumped into his embrace, sighing as she relaxed.

    His hands roamed, one caressing a nipple, the other parting her wet warmth. Her desire rose as he kissed softly below her ear.

    Now ripe with want, he swept her into the bedroom, pulling her astride him in complete submission to her hunger.

    “Come, open your kitchen, my little chef. Let’s put a bun in your oven.”
    200 words

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