My mother always told me the way to a guy’s heart is through his stomach.

My naughty, zany aunt took her advice even further, saying, “Always fill your man’s stomach and empty his balls.”

And I guess they’re onto something — feeding your man can lead to some loving. After I’d been dating Jackson for a few weeks, I figured it was time to steam things up in the kitchen — and hopefully in the bedroom.

Jackson’s an old-fashioned Southern boy who vowed to treat his woman with respect and honor, which is why we had only made out a few times. I figured he must be suffering from blue balls, unless he was getting himself off as often as I was with my handy-dandy vibrator. When Jackson called midweek to invite me to dinner and a movie on Saturday, I suggested he come to my place instead, telling him I’d enjoy cooking dinner for him. When he arrived with a bouquet of red roses, I was wearing my “Kiss the Cook” apron.

He immediately did just that, and he sure knows how to kiss. Then he stood behind me, wrapping himself around me and nipping at my neck, all while pressing his ever-growing boner against my ass as I sautéed shrimp in a butter and wine sauce. He was making me melt like butter in a hot pan, and I was glad when the shrimp was done so I could put it aside. Everything else was ready and would just need to be reheated if we took a break.

Jackson was clearly on the same page. He pulled me toward him aggressively and passionately kissed me. The heat turned up when he removed my apron and my shirt. His rugged hands roamed all over my body, then focused on my lace bra. Without a moment of hesitation, he unhooked it one-handed, all while furiously making out with me.

Jackson took it up a notch when he unzipped my tight, fuck-me jeans. After finding my matching lace panties, he pulled them down to reveal my trimmed and dripping pussy. I stood ready and willing as he whipped out his monstrous cock. Then he spread my legs apart while we leaned against the kitchen table and he drove his cock into me. Jackson pumped and stroked, with his meat expertly hitting all the winning spots.

I was on the edge of an explosion when the timer beeped, breaking our rhythm. Oops, I’d completely forgotten about the brownies in the oven. Jackson slowed down his thrusts and we reluctantly eased out of our dick/pussy fusion so I could turn off the timer, pull out the brownies, and get back to our main course.

Jackson’s boner was still at full attention. I wrapped my arms around him, kissing him wildly as he scooted me up onto the kitchen counter. He took aim and drilled my hungry pussy. The thrusts were again taking me close to the edge, but Jackson was such a tease. Whenever I cried that I was going to come, he would pull out, then restart the amazing ride.

“Jackson, please,” I begged.

Finally he gave me what I wanted. With one last hard thrust, he took me to oblivion. I practically screamed in delight. As I came off my high, he was still nearing his. He urgently pumped my wet, satisfied pussy, and I squeezed my muscles to milk his dick.

He growled, “Elena!” as he came inside me.

We eventually got around to sampling the food. “Thank you for cooking for me,” Jackson said, nibbling my fingers.

“Once I take a shower, I have some-thing else for you to eat,” I said. I guess my mother and aunt were right: Cooking for a man definitely leads to satisfaction.

— E.V., Michigan

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From the September 2015 issue of Penthouse magazine.

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