A Glass of Chablis

George was back late. From seeing Doris he had gone on to make his rounds, seeing various friends, checking on them, sorting matters out. It was what he did. Something of an employment – unpaid of course, but he had his pension. Pensions indeed. It was not a problem.

He was back quite late in the day. Ivy had been busy. The house had been cleaned, washing had been done and the table set for dinner.

"Ivy you did not need to..."

They stood in the hallway, Ivy asking what he had been up to and hearing about it all. Again, he repeated, looking around, "Ivy you did not need to..."

But clearly a girl not paying rent felt she should pay in kind – do various jobs, chores if you like, even if Mr George Crombie would not hear of the idea of her paying with sexual favours. The table, though, did not have its usual look.

"What is for dinner then, Ivy?"

The answer was surprising: "Me!"

George looked nonplussed.

"I want you to eat me. You've not done that."

He still looked puzzled."

"Like I did you, this morning."

"Oh, ah, I see, cunnilingus."

"You don't... you don't mind?"

"Course not, I'd love... the dish."

Perhaps that, then, explained the table setting. It might also explain what Ivy was wearing. It was certainly not trousers or jeans.

"Do you think your moustache will tickle?"

"I'll try and tickle your fancy."

"Upstairs with you and perhaps you might be more comfortable in your dressing gown after your busy day."

It was a bathed, cologned and generally refreshed George Crombie that returned downstairs and, as Ivy had suggested, dressed very casually for the evening in his dressing gown. Where, though, was Ivy?

"Are you ready?" A call from the kitchen. An affirmative from George. "Just wait until I call you through – to the dining room."

A five-minute wait and then a 'You can come in now.'

Unbelievable! George walked into his dining room and stopped in complete surprise. At the head of the table his chair ready, the table set and before his chair a plate of steaming asparagus but that was hardly all. Upon the table, naked and with her sex right up to his plate, her legs open, was Ivy. Displayed, exhibited, exposed.

"Don't wait, don't let it get cold. There's melted butter and..."

George swallowed, she did not really mean for him to dip his asparagus in, did she? But she did! Butter and the juice of a young woman. Between the leaves of his dressing gown his penis started to make its appearance. Upon his plate the green phallic shapes of asparagus, imported out of season from who knew where, yellow butter dripping down them, ready to be dipped; from his dressing gown an equally phallic shape, pink and ruddy – hardly a fresh young shoot like the asparagus, though George was finding Ivy was making his penis feel young again.

Tempting to thrust the plate aside and, indeed, thrust into Ivy but he was expected to dine first. George sat in his chair, at his usual place at the table but the meal so different. Before him the plate but beyond the open sex of a young woman. The asparagus green and white, but the pudenda delightfully pink. Both close, both looking delicious. The soft, soft skin of Ivy's inner thighs shook. It was not just him who was anticipating the feast.

Carefully he picked up one of the asparagus spears, taking it by its blunt end, where it had been severed – perhaps not the best thought or word for a vegetable so obviously phallic in shape. The rounded, pointed end slightly sagged away from him as he brought it towards Ivy's waiting entrance. He put it back down on the plate, perhaps a slightly thicker one might have less give, be a little less steamed. The butter was really running on the second one – dripping from it. It reminded George, as Ivy had probably intended, of semen upon a penis. Perhaps Hollandaise would have been better – certainly even more semen-like. George, though, preferred butter with his asparagus – and probably, though he had not yet tried that, melted butter and young girl! Gently he poked with the rounded end. A gasp and sigh from Ivy as she was touched – more than touched, the phallic shaped end was actually inside her. What did it all feel like for a woman? What were the feelings as her sex was touched whether with fingers, tongue, penis or even freshly steamed, slippery with butter, hot asparagus?

George pushed some more. Quite wonderful to be pushing a green phallus into Ivy; so sexual; so visually a feast. He slipped the spear right up into the girl and then slowly drew it out. Thick and still buttery but now with something more – the lubrication of a young girl. He liked asparagus but the sexual connotation of him about to put his lips over the green phallus rather knocked him. There was a smile upon Ivy's face. She knew what he was thinking.

George stood up and leant forward over Ivy, his own phallus touching her curls, and offered the green vegetable to Ivy. Such a thrill to see her mouth open, her tongue appear and, at first, Ivy licking the asparagus before taking it within her mouth in such a sexual way. He almost winced when she bit. It did not seem so sexually perverted for him to take the second bite.

Re-seated George prepared to dip more of the so flavoursome spears. He stroked a thinnish one along Ivy's labia, rolling it in her juices before popping it in his mouth. Another and another, carefully rolled and then George picked up the really thick one. A real, green asparagus cock! Wonderful to line it up with her hole and push. The male fascination with the female entrance; the desire to put one's penis within and, other things; how nice it was to watch other rounded objects enter; to see the flesh move as the object was tugged to and fro. Gently he rotated the spear. Did that feel good? Pulling it out he touched it to Ivy's clitoris, gently rubbing it, making it the shinier with butter.

He looked up at Ivy, her eyes were watching and then he did it. Something to him quite obscene with the asparagus spear – yes as if it was the cock of a green man. Licking it as Ivy had done and then sucking it into his mouth right under his moustache. Ivy giggled and then winked as she ran her tongue over her top lip. She was most certainly a wonderfully, naughty girl.

The plate consumed as an hors d'oeuvre. It was now time for the entrée, the main dish: buttered young girl. Already he had toyed with the dish, had poked asparagus at it, had buttered the soft flesh, perhaps softening it. It was nicely warm, the flesh clearly succulent and tender. Perhaps a squeeze of lemon, perhaps a pinch of salt... George smiled to himself. Semen was salty. Would Ivy's pudenda taste best with a little Béchamel sauce or Hollandaise piped over it? It had not been George's fantasy to consume his own ejaculate or anyone else's for that matter. He had tasted – but who has not – his own; though it was not at all his fetish. Yet the thought of Ivy so decorated came strongly sexual to him. No, that would come later. He would 'eat' Ivy first as intended.

A knife and fork hardly seemed the right implements for the meal. Ultimately, George knew he would need to be rather basic. He would have to simply use his fingers rather than such implements; or just lower his mouth to the dish, very much like the pig at his trough, or the dog at his bowl. He did not think he would have the delicacy of the cat at its bowl. Perhaps that was more for other women; a delicacy of approach even when feeding. George smiled. He might not fancy sucking a cock, but he certainly fancied seeing women upon women. How good to watch another girl 'eat' Ivy or the two soixante-neuf!

George had eaten Chinese – not of course a Chinese girl – and had become well versed in the use of chopsticks many, many years before. He had seen Ivy had them placed on the table but had not thought of using them. What a thing, though, to part the girl's lips with them, closely examine the succulent pink flesh within, hold each lip as if some sort of delicate sea food – an oyster perhaps- and, as if he was holding a pea twixt the chop sticks to actually hold her clitoris, rubbing gently with the smooth wooden ends as Ivy moaned.

If not a knife and fork – he was not at all sure that prodding at her with the tines of a fork would be the most comfortable or pleasing – but a spoon? The cold smooth back of a spoon rubbed along her wet flesh. The cold back stroking her clitoris. It occurred to him that Ivy was wet enough for a spoon to be used. A soup course? Ladling her wetness into his mouth. But the spoon was a dessert spoon not a soup spoon!

George picked up a wedge of lemon and squeezed the juice, the drops falling down onto the sweet flesh. A little salt and even a little freshly ground black pepper. He hoped that would not irritate. From the expression on Ivy's face it certainly amused.

He did use the chopsticks; he did use the spoon – very much as he had thought, but of course he could not really raise the soft flesh to his mouth with the chopsticks – it was very much attached to the girl. The best he could really do was with the spoon. A soup course indeed twixt hors d'oeuvres and entrée. There was, indeed, 'soup' in the spoon when he dipped it; Ivy's eyes upon him as he raised the spoon to his mouth and sipped.

George had played and toyed enough. He set down the spoon and leant forward, his head going between Ivy's thighs. Not at all formal, rather very informal, and rather not the way to eat at the dinner table – without implements – he applied his mouth directly to the dish before him, burying his face between Ivy's thighs and sucking the so soft flesh into his mouth. To suck rather than bite of course! George applied himself to the girl with gusto – cunnilingus indeed! A comfortable cunnilingus at his dinner table. What would Doris have thought finding him at table with his face buried between a naked young girl's thighs and those thighs clamped around her ears. Perhaps Doris might have smiled remembering back to her younger days when young men had eaten her, or perhaps when schoolfriends had done just that. Who knew what these old ladies might have got up to in their youth?

A women's flesh is soft and malleable, he did not just lick but sucked much of it into his mouth, not to chew but certainly to play masticate and roll it around. The noises he made were a trifle indelicate. Perhaps it was the moustache, it must have tickled; perhaps it was simply that George proved very good at cunnilingus; perhaps it was just Ivy had become so aroused, but she certainly came – and more than once with the old man's head between her thighs. She wriggled and moaned and still George kept at his dinner.

Eventually, George rose from the table; the girl lay there almost like a rag doll, limp and clearly satiated. It was time for George to do the manly thing. Yes indeed, apply his warm Béchamel or Hollandaise sauce, not so much to dress her sex as to fill it full. Perhaps more piping the cream into Brandy Snaps or filling an éclair with confectioner's custard than the artistic swirling of a creamy dressing across a delicious salad.

From between the leaves of his dressing gown his cock extended. It had been erect for some time and his balls were beginning to ache with need. A little tug to Ivy to bring her sex just a little further down the table, to position her 'oily,' as Beatrice had called it, just right for him to stand and apply himself. George had poked both asparagus and his tongue within. It was now the turn of his manly organ, dripping like the asparagus with 'butter,' or was it that Hollandaise sauce? Good to feel and so good to see. Peeled like a banana, George's ruddy knob, smooth and swollen, a contrast with the craggy, gnarled shaft, touched. Again, George Crombie was so conscious what fate had handed him those last few weeks: the chance for real sex again, not with some no doubt comely but aged woman of his acquaintance but a young girl. The penis going into her was well over three times older than her. The old cock and the young pullet. He watched his knob opening her moist flesh, and then disappearing inside. George's shaft slid further and further taking his urethral opening closer and closer to her cervix.

What a thought – making the young girl pregnant. An added thrill of an idea - as if he needed one. It was all exciting enough. In any case, Ivy was on the Pill, there was no danger however potent he might imagine or might still be.

Balls deep, his knob no doubt pressed against soft cervix. George paused and smiled down at Ivy. She had not moved. Still as limp as a rag doll, allowing her body to be used. George began to use it, his hard penis sliding freely. It was so not the time for Doris to ring! It was also not the time to hurry to a climax, it was a time to savour, to take the sex slowly and just enjoy. Ivy had come – repeatedly – there was no need to worry about her, just to concentrate on the warm, wet heat surrounding his penis and slide, slide, slide.

Ten minutes by the clock, ten minutes of sexual intercourse before George's penis spurted. He had not counted how many times he had moved in and out, nor did he count the number of pulses of semen – but in both cases the numbers were high!

The chair was behind him and George simply sat, and his penis followed him out of Ivy. The penis was withdrawn.

Sitting once more he stared at the newly inseminated pudenda before him. A buttered, perhaps even battered, sexual orifice oozing male cream. Maybe, he thought, he should steam some more asparagus for Ivy to dip. Would she like that, fresh al dente asparagus dipped in salty semen? A gourmet dish for young women – perhaps! Such a sexy little thing, such a delightful and naughty girl. She would make some young man – or young men maybe – very happy. As always, the act of ejaculation made George a little pensive, a little sad - postcoital tristesse indeed. He stared at Ivy's sex knowing it all could not last. Soon, very likely, she would be off. A new flat share and a new young man. It would happen. A wry smile: but what memories – and she was not gone yet!

Ivy stepped onto the station platform with all the other commuters getting off at 'her stop.' She smiled to herself. Two weeks and a bit and already she was thinking of it as 'her stop.' She was not sure she had been happier in a long time. The new job was so very her, she loved it, and it was so good to come back to George Crombie's house each evening. The fire in the grate, the domestic comfort and George himself. Not really like a husband, more a great uncle fussing a little around her as she stepped through the door. She knew he would brew tea for her, the kettle going on as soon as he heard her open the door, amusingly with loose tea rather than the tea bag she dunked at work. It was a lot better, of course. She even had her own key.

But could she really stay for very much longer. It really was not fair on him, disturbing his routine; him having to put up with girl's underwear drying in a row on the radiator. George did not seem to mind, but it was not fair on him: on the other hand, Ivy really did not want to have to go through the rigmarole of finding a flat share – again! Perhaps she might stay a little longer.

Her feet pitter pattered on the wet tarmac as she exited the station in a long huddle, a crocodile of commuters; in a moment the file of people would split into three or even more as people went their separate ways, left, right or straight on.

George and she had not had sex the night before. It had been a quiet evening. He had made no move, not that he ever did – it was all her. And she had not felt like 'it.' Tonight might be different! Good to have the animal pleasure of touching bodies, maybe a hard penis inside her, George's old weather beaten cock pleasuring her – no, that was a silly adjective, apart from their wander around the garden Ivy doubted George's penis had been out in all weathers! Wrinkled maybe - it was not smooth like, like... others she had known. Leathery, yes there was a certain element of old tanned leather about it; gnarled certainly. It was a good cock, she liked riding and sucking it. She liked it getting bigger in her hand.

Nice to feel a certain wetness creeping into her knickers. She looked around at the other commuters. How many of them had sexual thoughts: did they more have such thoughts in the mornings on the way to work rather than when coming back tired and thinking of tea and supper? Easier for men, she thought, a woman did not really want to go to work all wet! Quite another thing to have a penis that erected and felt, presumably, pleasant as it got rubbed whilst the man walked to or from the station lost in erotic thought. Perhaps a dribble or two of pre cum but unless he overdid it, perhaps running for the train as he saw it coming into the station, no difficulty with wet underwear unlike a woman. The thought made Ivy giggle and the man passing her turned to look at her in surprise. She was not laughing at him: the thought of a man running for the train and finding himself ejaculating was a hoot.

Perhaps the man who was walking past her had an erection there and now, perhaps the man ahead of her. Who would know under their coats? Perhaps in their mind some fantasy they enjoyed or maybe the prospect of someone waiting at home all ready. A young wife, perhaps, in kitchen apron and nothing else.

But what of the women. Perhaps again a nice man waiting ready at home. Has he been told to be ready; not with kitchen apron perhaps but already standing erect in the hallway? A bit embarrassing if his girl has unexpectedly brought a friend home!

Ivy turned into George Crombie's gate and let herself in. She heard the metallic sound as the kettle was put on the gas. She was home.

Bathed, dined and comfortably settled before the fire sometime later, Ivy picked a book from the shelf and opened it at a slip of paper marking a passage. The book, the 'Story of O' by Pauline Réage.

'So it was this thin, blond boy, a mere stripling, with an English air about him. He was speaking

again; now she was certain. The other man was also fair, thick set with a heavy face. Both of

them were seated in the big leather armchairs, their feet near the fire, quietly smoking and

reading their papers, paying no more heed to the women than if they had not been there. Now

and then the rustle of a paper was heard, or the sound of coals falling on the hearth. From time to time O put another log on the fire. She was seated on a cushion on the floor beside the wood

basket, Monique and Jeanne, also on the floor, across from her. Their flowing skirts overlapped

one another. Monique's skirt was a dark red. Suddenly, but only after an hour had elapsed, the

blond boy called Jeanne, then Monique. He told them to bring the ottoman (it was the same

ottoman on which O had been spread-eagled the night before). Monique did not wait for further

instructions, she kneeled down, bent over, her breasts crushed against the first and holding both

comers of the ottoman in her hands. When the young man had Jeanne lift the red skirt, she did

not stir. Jeanne was then obliged to undo his clothing - and he gave her the order in the most

churlish manner - and take between her hands that sword of flesh which had so cruelly pierced O at least once. It swelled and stiffened beneath the closed palm, and O saw these same hands,

Jeanne's tiny hands, spreading Monique's thighs, into the hollow of which, slowly and in short

spasms which made her moan, the lad plunged.'

The appearance of George with two mugs of cocoa prompted her to read the passage again for his benefit