Honey on His Cock

The jar was honey and a decision.

Petra was thirty-five. Her partner Sol was forty-one. They had said it over toast, which was ironic. She wanted him sticky. He wanted to come in the mess and not be cleaned until she said. A towel on the floor. No eyes. Shower after the second round, not the first.

"On your back."

She drizzled honey down his chest and over his cock. It ran. She licked a stripe, then stroked him with a slick fist, and sank down. The slide was ridiculous. She rode him slow, honey on her tits where he had smeared it, her cunt tight. He held her hips and fucked up.

"Messier. Come on me when I lift off."

She came first, laughing, sweet in her hair. She lifted. He came in thick stripes over the honey on her stomach. She rubbed it in with two fingers and fed him one.

"Bed. The towel comes. You don't get a cloth."

He carried both. The jar stayed open on the counter like a promise.

Sol carried the towel and the jar to the bed. Petra lay back and let him drizzle honey on her cunt and lick it off until she came, sweet and shaking. He pushed in, sticky, and fucked her until the sheet was a loss. She told him to come on the mess. He did. She rubbed it in and fed him a finger and then rode him again, worse, laughing. The shower was allowed after the second round. He fucked her in it before the water won. In the morning there was honey in her hair and his come on the cheap sheet and neither of them apologised to the linen. She bought a second jar. He said Wednesday. The towel lived on the door like a flag.

Petra stopped pretending the honey was breakfast. She texted Sol the word towel and met him with the jar open. He was honey from chest to cock. She rode him until the cotton stuck and she came, then he came on the mess and she rubbed it in and licked her fingers and put him back in her. The shower took the evidence only after. A second jar lived by the kettle. Wednesday was standing. The door flag made him hard. She got wet seeing him see it. They fucked against the door, no honey, just the memory, and the trifle assumption at the shop remained a private joke.

Sol brought a second towel without being asked. Petra called that love. She used the whole jar. He was a mess. She rode him, came, took his come on the honey, mixed it, fed it to him, and fucked him again on the sticky cotton. The shower ran cold. The flag went on the door. Wednesday held. The shop woman asked if the honey was for baking. Petra said something like that. Sol fucked her in the car park after, no jar, just the want, and they were late for nothing that mattered.

The jar emptied and was replaced before the lid was on. Petra drizzled, rode, came, took the stripe, mixed, fed, fucked again. Sol was sticky and grateful. The flag on the door did its job. Wednesday held even when they were tired. They did it with less honey and more want, and it still worked. The shop woman stopped asking. Petra stopped explaining. Sol fucked her in the hallway once, towel in hand, and they laughed at the timing. The mess was the romance. The kettle was for other people.

Wednesday survived a headache and a late train. Petra had the jar out anyway. Sol was sticky in ten minutes and inside her in twelve. She came. He came on the honey. She mixed and licked and laughed and put him back in. The flag went up. The shop was not consulted. They fucked once more without the jar, against the door, and it was enough. The mess had become the way they said yes. The towel had a hook. The kettle had a complex. They did not resolve it.

The second jar died on a Wednesday that had no excuse. Petra rode the mess, came, took the stripe, mixed it, fed him, and did it again against the door with the towel as witness. Sol was late for nothing. The flag stayed. The shop woman had given up. They fucked without honey on Sunday and it was still filthy, which proved the point. The kettle boiled for tea at last and they drank it standing in the stick, unbothered, already planning the next jar.

The jar was open. The towel was down. She rode the stick, took the come, mixed it, and did not fetch a cloth. The flag stayed on the door. Wednesday did not move.