The Sin of KFC-A Fantasy

My darling readers, I know you are wondering, what with all this dating, "Where is the Captain?"

Well, he came and got me and took me to his estate. Or rather, the estate he was borrowing for the weekend. No matter.

We stepped inside and onto a dark green rug that felt soft under my feet (I had taken off my shoes immediately). The Captain walked into the living room, wearing his dark black boots and sat down on the couch. He put his feet up.

"Ah, that's better," he said.

I slipped under his arm and let him cuddle me for a bit. "Are you going to take off your boots?"

"Yeah," he reached down, unbuckled them and pulled them off. "There, happy?" he kissed me.

"Hmm. Yeah." I got on top of him and felt his hands massaging my back.

"This is going to have to come off," he said, removing my black mini dress which had pink applique designs.

"You know, I have confession to make," I said.

"What?" he kissed me and ran his hand down my body, carefully fingering the lace of my panties. "These are nice," he said. "And, this," he ran his hand under the lace on my bra, gently caressing the nipple, "gorgeous!" he kissed me again.

"But I have sin to confess," I said.

He leaned back, exasperated. "Hilda."

"What?"

He picked me up and carried me to the bedroom, kissing me as he went. When we got to the room, he lay me gently on the bed and ran his hands over my panties, "Mmm," he said, kneeling at the bottom of the bed and running his hands up and down my thighs, and then, his mouth.

"Captain."

"Shhh," he said as he removed my panties and then my bra.

"But-"

"No buts, except this one," he said, lightly slapping mine.

And then: it was on.

When we finished I said, "Now, may I speak, may I give you my confession?"

He shrugged.

"I have committed the sin of Kentucky Fried Chicken."

He looked at me, his face grave, blue eyes twinkling, "And what is that?"

I got up out of bed and padded out to the foyer where I had left my bag. In the bag was a bucket of KFC, kept warm by the insulation. I brought it into the bedroom, and still naked, climbed on top of the Captain, while holding the bucket.

"What is this?" He sat up and I nearly fell off him.

"It's chicken. Chicken done right!" I grabbed a breast and bit into it: fried chicken heaven! "Here, have a bite."

"Mmm. Certainly beats yeast extract," he took the rest of the breast and polished it off. "I do love the 21st century," he declared.

Together we ate the entire bucket.

By the time we had finished, he was hard again.

So we did it again. And again. The Captain is insatiable. And very very good at what he does.

And then there was a tender and moist chocolate cake with mocha buttercream icing.

The Captain ate most of it off my stomach.

And then? There was more sex!

I remain,

Hilda Stinson