Lying in a pile of blankets, she teases him. She’s wearing leggings, knee-high woollen socks, and a scoop neck tee that he reaches inside and gropes her tits.
Her nipples are hard. So is his cock. Her head is in his lap and she strokes the growing bulge of him distractedly, her attention focused on the screen. He sweeps her hair back behind her ear, plays with her earring, draws absent-minded finger-patterns on her shoulder.
He’s aware of the minutes ticking by. He reaches between her legs and strokes her cunt, pushing the fabric between her folds until her wetness seeps through and she moans, softly.
The screen cuts to the ads, and she bounces to her feet. ‘Tea?’
He gives her a moment to fill the kettle, to put teabags in the cups, to get the milk out. These seconds are part of her fantasy – she’s told him that before. She imagines the flick of a million switches around the country, the hiss of the water as it starts to heat, the condensation caused by a million plumes of steam.
It turns her on. As he comes up behind her and yanks her leggings down, she spreads wide for him and whimpers as he penetrates her. They’re alone, but it doesn’t feel like it: right now, she knows, millions of people are making tea. She imagines that, instead of picking at hangnails, rinsing plates, or hunting for biscuits at the back of a cupboard; they’re watching her: all of them.
Three minutes is all they have. Three minutes is all, incredibly, it takes. Around the country, demand for electricity surges. A million kettles boil. And in her kitchen, her cheek pressed to the worktop, her cunt filled with cock, and her fingers pressed to her clit, Sarah peaks too.