The Tasting Menu

Pulling backwards with calculated precision, the reel steady, the rod creaking, and my arms and back aching, I keep the fishing line taut as Lucy, drenched to her T-shirt and sports bra, her wet hair glued in clumps to her face and neck, throws her ass in the air and folds herself over the stern. All muscle and piss, she pivots towards me and in one deft sweep, scoops and delivers a furious forty-pound King Chinook onto the deck.

Hot Damn! Sweet Girl!

She smacks me a celebratory high-five and, rain rivulets streaming from her ball cap, plants me a salty, sweaty wet-mouth kiss.

We nailed that mad fucker!

The roar of the jet boat subsides as it moors and we run down the dock and across a soggy field to the lodge where we'll shed our wet Gore-Tex and clean up for dinner.

In the shower Lucy plays the brat, dodging my hard-on. "Dinner's waiting," she giggles as I cop feels and bites. Taking control, I turn her away from the shower jets. Fingers splayed across the tile, she tilts her hips and slides her legs apart as I ram my dick into her and fuck, the force of my thrusts lifting her slight figure at every push.

Fresh from the shower, Lucy sits at the dressing table draped loosely in her hotel robe. I admire her reflection in the mirror, her Japanese eyes, sleek auburn hair, full rich lips and a sprinkling of freckles. I catch glimpses of her purple lingerie, the detail and fabric so delicate it looks like it's painted on her skin. Sensing my stare, she puts on a show. She licks two fingers and slides them under her thong. The fabric ripples as the finger tips tickle her clit, emerge to stroke her stomach, linger at her bellybutton, trace up her breastbone, neck, and chin, and pull her lower lip into a pout. With a grab to the wrist, I put a stop to the meandering and pressing my face against her cheek, I nudge her gaze to the bed, where on the white down quilt I've left a coil of red silk rope. "That's for later," I promise.

The bedroom door opens to the grey, misty evening, and Lucy in a slip dress and stilettos hurries across the damp sprawling deck past a herd of commingling bison who chatter and graze with indifference on the surrounding pasture.

Against the floor to ceiling view of sky, field, river and mountain, this spirited specimen of a woman, who started the day with a sporty ponytail and ended up nabbing that beautiful fish, waits for me in the dining room. She shivers when I kiss her neck, and her nipples harden under the loose fabric of her dress. She reaches to sample a wafer and then pauses to discover and hold in her mouth the flavour and texture of sliced raw salmon, shallot-infused cream, and black sesame seeds. She smiles, raises her eyebrows, and offers the rest to me. Reaching, I nip and suck her fingers, the taste and scent of her enhancing its savoury flavour. She's as luscious and as fresh as the appetizer.

Falling back into my seat, I lift a vermouth to my lips. Lucy's figure blurs and I'm imagining her at the makeup mirror. I'm approaching from behind, reaching under her bra, squeezing her breasts, and gently pinching her nipples. The bra comes off. My hands massage her neck and slowly fall down her arms to her wrists. I stroke her smooth hands and lacquered fingers and fold her forearms one over the other behind her back. Her eyes following mine in the mirror, she complies by cupping her elbows into her palms and holding the position. I softly lift and drop, testing for looseness and comfort.

I cuff her wrists and loop the rope around her torso . . . once under the breasts and then over. Pulling the rope towards me, its soft brilliance and even braid is sensuous to the touch. I tuck it; cross it in a V between her breasts; and finish with a few deft twists, over and through. In the warmth and twinkle of the room, I stroke the knots, her skin, and the pretty chest harness.

"You want me?"

She nods eagerly.

"Maybe later. . ."

The flames of a crackling log fire flicker crimson, gold and violet off the drink bottles at the bar and enliven the rich ruby hue of our smooth whisky barrel Shiraz, which we swirl, sniff and sip from elegantly stemmed glasses, as we sample from a platter of shimmering carpaccio. There's the faint kitchen sound of cutlery grating against ceramic but I'm back in the silence of the bedroom. Cradling Lucy's face in my hands I guide it towards my erection. She swallows in anticipation. I watch myself penetrate; feel the soft wetness of her tongue and throat; and then slowly pull back out. She whimpers in greed and desperation as a string of her saliva stretches from her lips to my cock, and a bead of pre-cum forms at the tip. Then, to tease, I leave the room, while she, tightly bound, gasps for more.

A flirtatious twinkle in Lucy's eye captivates the sommelier who smiles bashfully as he pours a tasting of sake into my glass. It's called

Nightingale in the Garden

. Lucy is photographing the label when the chef arrives with our salmon, cooked, dished, and plated. We inhale the seasoned and seared flesh and savour its full-flavoured velvety texture.

An actuary at TD Trust, she talks of risk, but I've drifted off. I'm in my dream world pulling back her hair and going down on her lips and mouth. Disciplined, I edge out, and turn her onto the makeup table. I rub her bum cheeks, offer a few loose taps, and then a spank. Stroking the redness with a calm gentle hand, I put my finger to her vagina to find it throbbing. As Lucy squirms and wriggles, I give her another smack.

Tender lamb is served pink in the middle surrounded by a layer of moist and succulent fat. The pairing, an organic Chilean Pais, an ancient grape imported by Spanish conquistadors in the 16

th

century as a sacramental wine, is magnificent . . . but I just want Lucy. In my hotel room fantasy, I beckon her to the bed, tilt her backwards onto the quilt with a bounce, and untie her. "Show me your clit!" She splays open the folds of her cunt and points. Dipping my face into the shorn slot, I lick, suck and tickle, as she moans in response. My face between her thighs, I yearn for her.

"We'll take dessert on the deck," I tell the server.

As I sip a sultry Hungarian wine, the bitter earthy flavour of chocolate cake contrasts with citrusy yuzu and clover honey. Grasses rustle and whisper, and the moist brown eyes of the fenced animals stare at us, all except for Ferdinand, who noses the ground and snorts. There's a faint distant sound of sleepy autumn bird calls and kitchen staff murmur in conversation as they close down for the night.

* * *

Having given my husband some parting instructions, the chef just left. I notice the silence . . . no muffled voices in the hallways, no squeaking bedsprings, no shadows at the windows. A rabbit blinks, freezes, and flitters away, and I realize that tonight the dining room was empty, the kitchen and serving staff tending only to us.

Under the porch lights, the lodge behind us is black, and in the darkness before us the pasture breathes and exhales. We are the only guests. . . two solitary actors before a shaggy-coated audience, who having found the opening acts mildly entertaining, now stifle their arousal with coughs, fidgets and farts.

"Stand up," Nic orders.

With his brown Adriatic eyes and head of black curls tamed by years of responsibility, decisions, and expensive haircuts, Nic Stefanovic eyes me up and down in steely silence. Even in that ridiculously oversized log Adirondack chair, my Master commands respect.

He owns me.

"Strip for me."

I allow my dress to fall and stand before him naked and trembling.

"Beg for it!"

"I want you . . . Please. . ."

Nic steps into the bedroom and emerges wearing a hotel robe and carrying a rope. He makes a noose and drops it around my neck. Gently tugging it horizontal, he tests the tension and pulls.

"Come."

Across the deck, over the moonlit field and down to the riverbank, we stop under an alder tree. I feel the rope slide off and melting I offer my wrists. Nic laces them twice, hoists my arms up over my head, and ties them to a branch.

The herd is restless, shapeshifting in the dark, undulating and wailing. Beads of moisture on their fleece glisten under the Hunter's moon.

He presses his body against mine and I feel my cold nipples rub warm against his chest. Pulling the arch of my back towards him, his fingers count down the ridges of my spine until they find the cleavage of my ass and reach to penetrate. My knees buckle. He drops to devour my cunt. Amidst the ancient bog of blood, brambles, grass, and fur, the earthy smells of moist earth, the vastness of the sky, and the brilliance of the moon, his cock hardens for me and he rises to standing. My body rocking, his hands lock under my buttocks and thighs. I swell, harden, and grip while pounding, grunting and holding, he springs out into me, a deep abiding surrender and communion.

Menu:

Tuiles topped with salmon and crème fraîche, garnished with black sesame seeds and finely chopped shallots.

Coriander seed and pepper bison carpaccio and pickled beet with fennel seed served with truffle aioli.

Roasted salmon collar basted with butter, thyme and Meyer lemon.

Parsley encrusted lamb saddle served with a king oyster mushroom, and lamb jus.

Chocolate cake with yuzu curd and a honey mousse.