I watch him for a moment, my hands resting on the edge of the table. There’s something so intimate about feeding someone you care about, about putting hours of work into creating something that will bring them joy for only minutes. The impermanence of it doesn’t make it less valuable; it makes it more precious.
Kind of like us: temporary but beautiful.
I sink to my knees and crawl under the table, settling between his spread thighs.
His fork pauses. “Sophie….”
“Keep eating, Vincenzo.” I place my hands on his knees, feel the muscle beneath the fabric of his pants.
For a moment, he just stares down at me, his throat working as he swallows. “Another point you’re trying to make, Sophia?”
I slide my hands up his thighs, feel them tense beneath my palms. “I want to make you feel as good as my food tastes. May I,padrone?”
The wordpadrone, or master, makes his pupils dilate. His breathing changes, becomes heavier. He spears another piece of gnocchi, but his eyes never leave mine.
“Si, regina,” he says roughly. “Take care of yourpadrone.”
My queen. Take care of your master. The endearments makes my heart flutter even as I reach for his belt.
I work slowly, deliberately. There’s no rush. This isn’t about getting him off quickly so we can move on to something else. This is about worship. About showing him through touch what I can’t say with words.
His belt slides free with a soft whisper of leather. The button of his pants opens easily. When I lower his zipper, he lifts his hips just enough for me to ease his pants and boxer briefs down his thighs.
His cock springs free, already half-hard and oh my gosh impressive, thick and long, the head flushed dark with arousal. My fingers don’t quite meet when I wrap my hand around the base and stroke upward slowly, watching his face.
He takes another bite of gnocchi, but his jaw is tight. His free hand grips the edge of the table.
“Eat, Vincenzo,” I remind him gently. “Enjoy your dinner.”
I lower my head and drag my tongue up the underside of his shaft, root to tip, tasting him. He groans, and I feel his thigh muscles tighten beneath my other hand.
“Fuck, Sophie—”
I love it when he says my name like that. I smile to myself then wrap my lips around just the head, sucking gently while my hand continues those slow, languid strokes.
Above me, I hear the clink of fork against plate. He’s trying to eat like I asked. The thought makes me smile around his cock.
I take him deeper, inch by inch, relaxing my throat and breathing through my nose. When he hits the back of my throat, I swallow around him and he curses, a string of Italian that sounds like a prayer of profanity.
His hand drops to my hair, not pushing, not pulling. Just holding.
I establish a rhythm: slow withdrawal until just the tip remains between my lips, then a languid slide back down. My hand follows my mouth, squeezing gently, adding pressure where my lips can’t reach. With my other hand, I cup his balls, rolling them carefully, feeling them draw up tight.
“Sophie.” My name is a ragged exhale. “Baby, that feels—Fuck, your mouth—”
I hum around him in acknowledgment and the vibration makes him jolt. “Don’t fucking stop. Give me more.” He grips my hair tight.
I give him more.
I take him deeper, until my nose presses against the dark hair at his base, until tears prick my eyes and my throat convulses around his thick cock. I hold there for a moment, until I need breath, then withdraw so so so slowly, my tongue pressing flat against the underside, tracing the thick vein that pulses there.
“JesusChrist, Sophie—”
When I reach the tip, I swirl my tongue around the head, dipping into the slit to taste the salt gathered there. Then I release him with a soft pop and lower myself to his balls.
I lick them, shower them with attention, take first one then the other gently into my mouth while my hand continues stroking his shaft. Long, slow pulls from root to tip. I can feel him thickening further, getting impossibly harder.
“Are you eating, Vincenzo?” I ask against his skin, my breath ghosting over wet flesh.
