Churros

She dips the fat, greasy churro into a styrofoam cup filled with hot, dark chocolate, and thinks of his dick. Not because it’s fat (though it is) or greasy (definitely not – unless you count the slick sheen her cunt leaves when she finally climbs off it), but because somewhere deep inside she’s always thinking of his dick, and all the things she wants to do with it.

With it – or to it? Honestly, that depends on her mood. She doesn’t think of herself as dominant, but the first time she curled her fingers around his shaft and felt it twitch against her palm – saw the confused, desperate mix of vulnerability and lust in his eyes – she knew she’d never really be able to let go. Whether she’s using her hand or her mouth, her arse or her cunt, she possesses his dick…and he allows her to do so.

The churros soak up the chocolate. Each bite she takes is rich with fatty, salty flavour and the sharp hit of cocoa. It makes her crave just one more mouthful, over and over again; the same way she feels when she’s sliding her lips over the head of his dick, and the throb in her stomach is saying “more, more…more…”

Neither process is delicate. Oh, each one could be, if only she had the patience, the coolness – the sheer fucking brass neck – required to take it slow. To savour each churro as she lifts it from the plate; to deny both herself and him the pleasure of her mouth on his salty-sweet dick. But that’s not how she’s wired.

For her, too much is always better than too little. Her eyes light up when the vendor in the small town’s dusty Plaza Mayor heaps an extra churro into the white paper bag, already translucent with oil. “Gracias senor,” she says, and scurries back across the square, still too shy with her Spanish to linger and chat.

She’s not shy with him though; not when she’s hanging off the side of the bed, arching her back as he curls a hand round her neck to support the weight of her head, and uses his thumb to prise open her mouth. Not when his cock’s in her throat, and all she can smell and taste is the clean, damp tang of him, flooding her airways. It’s too much in every sense, from the uncontrolled throb of her clit to the last half-inch of length he pushes into her mouth, just as she’s starting to splutter and gag – and that’s why she loves it.

She sometimes laughs at how simple her tastes have become, as if the summer heat has boiled down and stripped away anything extravagant inside her. She eats fish from the market, flash-fried and served on paper studded with salt. Later there’s hard, nutty cheese, and tomatoes the size of her fist. At night she sits quietly in the bar under her flat and drinks the rough local wine, till the lights above the doorway shimmer and blur.

Routine used to make her anxious – every repeated experience felt like it came at the expense of something new. It’s different here though, for reasons she can neither explain nor bring herself to question. The churros are the same each morning and so is his dick, but that only makes her love them more. Consistency and reliability reinforce their appeal, rather than dulling it. They fill her world with a vibrancy she didn’t know it needed.

She wipes the last churro stub around the glaze of chocolate that clings to the bottom of the cup, and licks the sugar from her fingers like a cat cleaning its claws. Waste not, want not, her mother always said, and it’s a principle she applies without hesitation. It’s why she holds him in her hand for so long after he’s come, lightly squeezing his shaft and thumbing the last few drops of spunk up from the tip. Sometimes he presses his dick against her stomach or between her breasts, and she watches him pump all over her pale skin; she likes it when he smears and rubs it into her afterwards, a look of concentration on his face, till only a series of dry white streaks remain.

She carries him with her like that, down to the harbour or out into the bare, rocky hills that surround the village. One day she’ll carry him over those hills and far away; the streaks will fade, along with the bruising ache he leaves deep inside her, and only the memory of his dick will remain.

She’ll buy her churros from another street vendor, somewhere new, and she’ll twist them between her fingers out in the bleached heat of another endless summer morning. When they’re coated in chocolate, she’ll slip them into her mouth and feel the ridges run over her tongue; she’ll think about the soft veins that wind like ribbons around his shaft, and her cunt will clench in unmet need.

She’ll swallow – hard – and move on to the next one.

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