Micro Monday, Historic Fiction
A Day in the Life of a 1680 Pestle
Ever constant, be it crushing spices or fucking, always ready, alert, always hard, ever at hand.
Cousin Pons flash fiction was from the woman’s view point. Here I retell the story as the pestle and add a little more delicious detail.
Have you ever written from the POV of an object before? It is a good challenge.
Without complaint my precious mortarium accepts the pounding I bestow with my thick spherical knob. Both of us adore creating sensual aromas from our perfect pairing. Me the provoker, she the willing receptacle, glad to receive. And then there is you — sleepwalking as if under a spell, instigating this lovemaking, grinding me hard, forcefully — as the scent of cracked coriander fills the air.
Your wanton fingers brush my tip to discard seeds. I yearn to once more be hammering my porcelain-complexioned beloved. But you have other ideas that thrill — I cannot deny. Taking me in your mouth, a predator devouring its kill, sucking the wood almost dry. Then the familiar musty scent of cunt abounds as again you tease your dewy swollen lips with my girth — your consistent carnal companion. Many times these meanderings during slumber hours have led you to me — ever constant, be it crushing spices or fucking, always ready, alert, always hard, ever at hand.
Tasting your own juices from my tip, a distant look in your eyes. Thinking, perhaps, of the Master, or maybe looking back to when the scullery girl first arrived.
Both of you inebriated, swilling the cooking brandy and telling secrets. She confessed to being a virginal maid. Taking a firm hold of that ample breast your other hand dove under her skirts, pulling aside undergarments and inserting a finger.
Together on the kitchen table, we parted her thighs as you edged me into her sex. A shriek of pain halted us — but she implored you to continue, her cunny easing as I filled it with desire. Slowly pressing me further in, your tongue flicked along the fleshy folds. Laying back, one final hip thrust resulted in her exaltation, and I was smeared with virginal blood which stained for days to come.
Now, still in a trance, I’m rammed into your cunt, shafting your sex as surely as I pulp spice. Whimpering in rapture your muscles contract around my length.
Then you drop me carelessly and retreat to your room, moments before the sun beckons the new day.
The door opens and the Master walks in. Retrieving me from the floor he sniffs. Aroused by the aroma his hand massages the growing bulge in his trousers. Then placing me with my cherished mortarium and raising his eyes towards your room, he heads out of the kitchen.
Historical Fiction from May More
