The man grins, his thick fingers sliding into the slick red pulp of a ripe tomato, juicing it over the counter as if milking a willing cock. He breathes deep, the sharp scent of garlic tingling his nostrils, then rubs it slow, its bulbous curves between his palms till he moans low, thinking of her slick cunt. His hips grind against the counter edge, denim riding up to frame his bulging crotch.

He slices cucumber skin with a scrape that sounds like a sharp moan, and the pale flesh’s wet snap makes his Balls tighten. Each carrot he plunges into the mandoline feels like a wet, feverish thrust into a tight heat. He choops onions—cut like teasing striptease tears prick his eyes, wetting sweat that glides from his neck into that dusky happy trail above his cock demanding space in his pants.

Now the meat: beef chunks glisten with marbled fat. He presses them hard onto the cutting board, feels the cold bloodied rub against his knuckles—images of her shuddering, rasp-rough gasps when he shoves inside. He forces the filet knife with a long, slow slice; it makes the same slick, guttural sound as his shaft sliding between swollen labia. Hell, he can smell her scent on these juices.

In a mixing bowl, he stirs the holy mix: crunchy bell peppers, oil slicking everything like pre-cum slicking his shaft lubed prick ready. Dredges pork slices through flour—the pillowy mess pillows his imagination, hitting the first deep insistent caress.

He smashes garlic cloves beneath the flat of his knife: the cracking releases salty pleasure, drops of its oil land