Mr. President

Okay, I don’t think I’ve ever cooked dinner for one girl before. There was one time I invited three girls over and I made some food and fed them while they took turns sucking my cock, individually and then all together. But that was work. We were fucking rehearsing, okay?

I’ve invited girls for a drink before. One, maybe two glasses of wine before the dress is on the fucking floor and I’m ripping the panties.

But dinner?

Fuck.

This is going to be a first for me.

The attendant comes out after loading my kitchen up and nods to me. I tip him as he leaves and pour myself a scotch.

All of a sudden, I’m thinking whether I should just take Brittney to dinner instead. Maybe I’m not ready to cook this girl dinner.

But then, I think of her wide, innocent but sexy looking eyes. How they look, looking up at me. Shit, everything about her face is fucking beautiful. Even her neck is sexy. I just want to fucking kiss it and nibble on it until she’s squirmy.

Her body is out of this world.

Fuck.

There is something fucking wrong here. But one thing I know is not wrong at all.

Making her dinner. It feels like the most right thing in the world.

I start preparing the food. It’s not that hard, really. Chopping vegetables isn’t that big of a deal when you can ask the chef at the store to pre chop it for you so it’s ready. The meat is already marinated and ready to go so I get those ready. The couscous is set to boil.

I put the vegetables on a pan with some olive oil and I turn on the stove.

I have another scotch and think back to how I would have probably fucking kicked myself in the nuts if I ever go back in time and tell myself what I’m doing now.

But fuck it, I have bigger plans.

Bigger goals.

I’d tell you what they are but my doorbell rings again.

That’s odd. It’s a bit early for Brittney to be coming already.

I’m still wearing the apron I put on while cooking and I go to the door.

Yes, I was wearing an apron, okay? I just didn’t fucking tell you because…I mean, it’s not important, is it? I still got the abs underneath. I still got the fucking cock.

And no, I am not fucking taking off the apron to open the door. Not even if it’s…

Cheryl.

She raises her eyebrows at me as she sees me holding a cooking spoon with an apron.

“Do I even want to know what kind of weird sex game you’ve got going on?” Cheryl asks as she walks in. I turn around to give her room and she looks around as she comes inside.

She sniffs the air. “What’s that smell?” Cheryl asks me, turning to me and narrowing her eyes.

I shrug.

“Are you cooking?” she asks me.

“So what if I fucking am?” I snap back to her.

Cheryl smiles. “I’m just asking Ethan, it’s okay,” she tells me and takes a step over. “Expecting guests?”