wish fulfillment bullshit

"Oh, Maullar..." Matsuri calls in a singsong voice.
"'Sup, gelato buns." Matsuri's beau of some years looks up from his Playboy magazine (headliner article: "20 Powerful Men and Their Humectants")--or, more accurately, lowers his magazine and keeps his eye level squarely on Matsuri's lithe thighs.
Matsuri reaches over and turns Maullar's gaze upward; she's used to this. "Guess what?"
"You're not wearing any underwear?"
"Bzzt! Wrong. I made you dinner!"
"Oh." Maullar blinks. "That's, uh... great. Thanks."
"For a guy whose beautiful girlfriend just cooked for him, you're not very enthusiastic..."
"That's 'cause the last thing you made me was this avocado-flavored 'Torp Roman' imported from North Korea." Maullar shudders at the thought. "It's the only instant food I've seen where the serving suggestion on the front of the package just has a gun with a single bullet."
"It was on sale, and I said I was sorry..." Matsuri frowns.
"It tasted like you let R2-D2 cum in your mouth. If a bomb-sniffing dog gets a whiff of the flavor packet, it'll die in seven days."
"Well, it's not like you haven't bought stupider things." Matsuri puts her hands on her hips, leaning down towards Maullar. "Like that cereal bowl with the spigot in the side to let out excess milk..."
"Hey, I used it. ...For skeet shooting."
Matsuri leans closer. "And don't you still have that Sharper Image fake moustache that's supposed to purify water as you drink it?"
"Okay, okay, I get it. I'm sorry." Maullar throws up his hands in surrender.
"So you'll eat it?" Matsuri asks, hopefully.
"On one condition."
"Name it."
Maullar hooks his arms around the off-balance Matsuri's waist, eliciting a two-octaves-raised "oh!" as he pulls her on top of himself. "Feed it to me while wearing nothing but an apron, and then we'll talk."
Matsuri can't help smiling. "Perv."
"Naw, it's cool, it's cool. Everybody's doing it these days. Preachers' wives, feeding them their spartan measure of toast and beef while wearing a gingham apron and a smile." Maullar keeps his hand on the small of Matsuri's back, where her blouse has ridden up from the fall. "What do you think of that?"
"I think..." Matsuri giggles, nestling closer. "...you totally made that up."
"Hey, now... girls are supposed to like creative guys." Maullar gives Matsuri a little kiss on the tip of her nose. "I read it in--"
"--the Playboy Adviser," Matsuri replies jovially. "How long do you think I've known you?"
"Five of the best years of my life?"
"Good answer." Matsuri tosses Maullar's magazine over the side of the couch and drapes her arms about Maullar's neck. "But I think the Adviser's earned a little break..."
Instinctively, Maullar's hand creeps down to Matsuri's ass. "Now you're talking with gas."
"We'll sort out that metaphor later..." Matsuri leans in for the kiss, shifting her hips just so as Maullar undoes the catch on her skirt. Tongue is involved, and Matsuri's silky indigo hair cascades over her shoulders to rest on Maullar's chest. A minute passes, then five, without lip contact breaking, until--
"...Matsuri? Babe? Did you hear something?"
"I was just about to ask you..." Matsuri answers between flushed, shallow breaths.
"...Aya, that'd better not be you."

...Anyway, thanks for reading! Next time, a special report: How much can Momiko's skirt be covertly shortened, one inch a night while she sleeps, before she notices? The answer may surprise you!
Love,
Aya! <3