"Feeder" teaser

Last night I read from the story "Feeder" by Adelaide Clark in She's on Top. Here's a snippet:

They say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but what the mysterious "they" don't know is that the way to my pussy is also through a man's stomach. Just so we're clear—I get off on watching guys eat. Not just any guys, and not just any food, but my boyfriend, under my direct supervision. You could say it's part of my housewife fetish, but really, it's a lot more than that. Men's lips are the opposite of their cocks—soft and yielding, curving and delicate. When I'm stroking my boyfriend Ron's cock, I always like to stick my finger in my mouth and then trace it over his lips. I make him wait before slipping the finger inside. His mouth always opens for me, lets me enter, take over. It's wet and warm and soft and alive, kind of like my own sex, so maybe that's why I like it.

But anyway, my favorite form of foreplay is to make an extraspecial meal and then feed it to Ron in slow, sensual bites. I don't do it all the time, or he'd be thin as a reed, because these snacks aren't so much about his nourishment as his submission. Sometimes I bind his arms behind his back with rope, so all I see before me, under his floppy brow of jet-black hair and those piercing blue eyes, are his open mouth, pink tongue slightly visible, and cock straining against his pants. I'll be stirring something over the stove and he'll come up behind me, nuzzling my neck, his hands going around my waist, most often trying to get beneath my apron. All I have to do is tskand he gives me his puppy-dog look of contrition. I wouldn't really say I'm a cook, and am just as happy eating cold cereal or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but cooking for Ron brings out a whole other side of me.

He's the kind of guy who frequents five-star restaurants for work, since his job as a publicist requires him to schmooze with editors all day long. I know that sometimes he heads over to Peter Luger's and indulges in a thick, juicy steak with his friends. I'm not always perfect about it, but I try to avoid red meat myself. Still, that hasn't stopped me from jerking off on those nights when he's all suited and tied, hair slicked back just so, or from picturing him cutting into that red, oozing slab of flesh, his hands slicing it into tiny bites like a child, then lifting each one to those precious lips. I picture things I can't see, like the meat once it's placed inside his mouth, getting masticated into tiny pieces. I slip my own fingers into my mouth and suck on them, hard, while plunging my other hand into my panties, as I wish I were there to watch, or supervise, to observe two men doing something men all over the world must do every day—enjoy a meal together, savor what's on their plates in ways that are so troubling for women that we rarely indulge in that ultimate sensual pleasure with quite so much vigor. If it were just Ron and me, alone, I'd make him cut his meat with my bulging breasts right in front of his face, trying to distract him. Then I'd take each almost-raw (his favorite) piece and put it into his mouth myself, feel it slip from my fingers onto his tongue, maybe rub it in for good measure, then let go, letting my meaty fingertips linger under his nose for a moment. I'd watch him swallow, his eyes wide, fixed on me, the pleasure of eating converted into a different type of pleasure entirely as he does it under my gaze.