Jody craves my tongue as much as she craves the succulently flavored Lebanese meatballs stuffed with herb-garlic rice that I call Kufta ali Baba and the Forty Cloves. I see no reason to sate her appetite and leave her hungers unappeased.
After dinner, dirty dishes stacked, leftovers stored in the refrigerator. I open a bottle of merlot, Santa Ynez Valley 1992, and slip the stems of two glasses between my fingers. Jody waits in the living room, sitting loosely on the couch so that when I walk from the kitchen, I am greeted with her seductive smile, her deep claret hair tumbling along her shoulders, her open blouse revealing doughy breasts ripe for kneading and the clipped wedge of pubic hair that decorates her.
I kneel before her, present her with a glass of wine and sip mine while I marvel at her presentation: thickly rolled lips glistening moistness, boastful fingers revealing her individual form as a series of artful skin folds gothic in style, soft lights playing jewel-like off delicate pinks and shimmering corals and robust purples.
Could she use garnish? Perhaps a spring of parsley entwined in the neatly manicured reddish bush? Or maybe crushed oregano leaves and chopped basil and fresh pine nuts scattered sporadically in these feathery hairs?
Understand, I do not find fault. I merely wonder how I, as a chef, would arrange such a delectably singular course. I believe the eye plays as much a role in satisfying the appetite as the taste buds. A dribble of golden honey, carrot shavings, or raspberries and Devonshire cream oozing slowly into the glossy folds would add elegance.
But Jody offers herself straightforward-a simple Midwestern selection of meat and potatoes, as it were. Something innate in me finds comfort in this, the appetite so directly stimulated, nothing to mask the flavors, nothing to enhance the presentation, nothing to confuse the palate.
I quickly toss aside thoughts of adding substance to Jody's marrow.
I lean forward for my first aftertaste of dinner.
The meal has been a recipe I have spent years perfecting. I call it Mr. Jarrod's Plum Drunk Chicken. Plump chicken breasts, boneless and skinless, browned with seasonings strongly hinting of garlic and then braised over a simmering heat with a glaze of plum jam thinned by Irish whisky. I complimented it tonight with stir-fried asparagus and marinated tomatoes with cucumbers. Earlier, we sipped Margaritas and snacked on crudites dipped in mild vinaigrette.
Jody shivers as I test the first of her drippings. She slides forward as I sample the faintly intoxicating aromas. She growls softly as I pull the full range of flavors that ooze from her folds and simmer from her heat and tantalize this gourmand's tongue.
She calls this dessert. She says that if I can so expertly prepare her evening meal, the least she can do is provide me this one dish. Yet, I find no sweetness between her legs, for Jody's juices return to me the flavors of the dinner I have cooked for her.
I had noticed this unique aspect of her physiology the first time I tasted her. I had spent the afternoon preparing Pasta Curry Oslo: thin strips of Norwegian salmon filets broiled in lemon juice, saffron and minced ginger, and arranged on a bed of curried angel hair pasta garnished with chopped fresh parsley. A side dish of spiced apples had rounded out the meal. We ate with relish and sipped amaretto after and talked of things culinary as I basted her wanton and whisked her fluted with delicate fingers and ripened her al dente with nibbling lips. The initial touch of my tongue brought forth a burst of delicacies as richly gluttonous as dinner. The more I licked, the more I tasted the food I had prepared. I had thought it odd, but dismissed it as nothing more than the residual flavors left on my tongue or bits of the meal lodge in my teeth being worked loose.
After our third dinner together, when my tongue lapped her deeply, I knew the phenomenon came from Jody herself. We had attended a celebration dinner for a friend. He had just sold a novel (a tale of unashamed sex strewn with just enough violence to capture the reading public) to Hollywood for a very nice chunk of change. I did not return Jody home until well after one-yet, the moment my tongue flattened against the richness of her dessert, the full strength of the evening's Veal Normandie came as creamily smooth as when I slipped the first sliver of tender meat between my lips. I had hesitated in midlick, running my tongue along my teeth and across my lips, trying to understand the why of this culinary surprise. But Jody refused me this moment's reflection. Greedy fingers closed around my head and held me urgently against her as I willingly polished off course after creamy course.
I did, however, decide to pursue further tests.
I began making slight changes to our dinners: two drops of Worcestershire sauce sprinkled only on her serving of Brisket con Sante Fe; red wine vinegar marinating only her portion of Pork Medallions Bakersfield; sauted pearl onions in place of white grapes sprinkled across only her helping of Sauerbraten Veronique. Always, the thickly pliant flesh she arrayed blatantly for me yielded up these flavors as though fresh from the kitchen.
I marveled at the result. What Jody put into her mouth seasoned the juices of her arousal as delectably as I seasoned a Rack of Lamb Belfast or Schnitzel a la Milwaukee or Moroccan Grouse Barbecue. The more I licked, the more she exuded the flavors of my kitchen labors. I began waking in the morning, already planning that night's dinner, aroused merely at the thought of enjoy the benefits of her uniqueness. Yet, I wondered: What could I do with this knowledge? I mean, savoring a gourmet dinner brings its own style of pleasure, but tasting that meal again with Jody's fleshy thighs pressed against my ears and her succulent juices dripping onto my tongue sates the diner beyond all reason.
For a week, I prepare separate meals - Glazed Lamb Shanks Basque-style for her, Armenian meatballs for me; slivers of cashews on her salad, crushings of raw clams on mine; German vinaigrette dribbled over her snap peas, sweet and sour sauce ladled across my broccoli; chocolate mousse for her, raspberry ice for me. I had the best of both meals then, the piping hot dishes I made for myself, and then later, sampling the essences of the meals she had eaten.
But making two meals takes up too much time. I spend too much of the day in the kitchen, leaving little time to enjoy myself. I return to a single meal and relished the pleasure of a second course.
"Inside." Jody tugs me from the puree between her legs. "I want you inside."
In all these weeks, we have not gone beyond my tasting her and bringing her to gluttonous orgasms. I have spent so much time in pleasing her and in trying to understand her unique talent that I haven't given much thought to anything else. I have kissed her, of course, nibbling ruby lips, testing the hardness of her teeth, chasing her tongue with mine. I have run my fingers through the fine strands of her red hair, gathered it roughly in my fist, and let it tumble promiscuously about her shoulders. I have tenderized her breasts, turning her nipples cherry red and grape hard. But these have only been preparations for the moment I concentrate my energy and my palate on-licking her into flavorful orgasm after flavorful orgasm after flavorful orgasm.
But now she pulls me urgently over her and fumbles to free me from my trousers.
"You now how to stir a woman's juices." She licks my chin, whispers heated urgency in my ear, wraps long fingers around me.
"A good chief knows the palate requires lengthy preparation." I butterfly her beneath me.
