My First Raw Fuck with 314 in the New Kitchen

Late afternoon. My shiny new restaurant gleams. Pots aligned, veggies prepped. Doorbell buzzes. I buzz him in. 314 steps through, door clicks shut. His stance shifts—rocking side to side. Nervous? Him? Heart races. We’ve danced around this for weeks. Dinners, games, that sleepover sniff of his breath in my hair.

He closes in. ‘Evenings are tight on timing. Wanna fuck now?’ Blunt. Heat floods my cheeks. ‘Now?’ I stammer. Virgin truth spills—308’s shock replayed. His cock twitches visibly. Laughter bubbles, nervous. Do I want him? Fuck yes. Body screams ready. Mind? Not love. Too soon.

The Approach

‘No love words yet,’ I say. He nods. ‘Just fuck to unwind. Love’s different.’ Kiss starts soft. Turns hungry. Feverish. I yank his tee off. Drop my blouse—tits free. Skirt, panties gone. Kneel. His cock throbs, average, perfect. Suck half in. Tongue swirls. Pump slow, then fast. Gland licks. He groans.

‘Pro moves for a virgin,’ he chuckles. Watched hookers online. Clients loved it. But deep throat? News to me. He laughs hard. Pulls me up. Lifts me easy onto clean counter. Lips on neck. Suck, bite. Down to tits—knead, lick, nibble. Electricity shoots straight to my core. Belly, thighs, feet. Tease. Skirts my pussy. Frustration drips.

The Explosion

Finally, mouth on me. Tongue dives. Sucks clit. I shatter. First orgasm rips through—legs quake, screams echo off tiles. ‘Fuck, you’ll crave this daily,’ he grins. Gland nudges my slit. Tense up. ‘Gentle first,’ he promises. Push slow. Sting tears. Then flood of wet bliss. Legs wrap him. ‘Pound me!’ I beg. He eases deeper. Fills me. Thrusts build—slow to savage. Hand on tit, fingers on clit. I howl. Orgasms blur—one, two, endless. Counter slick. His grunts mix with my cries. He explodes inside, hot pulse.

Pant. He pulls out, dresses quick. ‘Relaxed?’ Smirk total. Laughter bubbles. Door chime—guys incoming. I bolt to bathroom. Wipe sweat, scent of us lingers—musky, his soap sharp. Back out, flushed. Their eyes gleam. They know. Dinner chat normal. Games start. I clean, buzz humming.

Night winds down. ‘Sleepover again?’ Yes. His place. Shower steam. He shorts-only. I spill: want every night. Together. But his slave… ‘Kitchen commis,’ he says. Door clicks—slave gone to couch life. Arms open. Snuggle in. Grin splits my face. Sleep hits fast. New life, raw and real.