Cherry Glaze
[I was challenged to write an erotic story about cherries. I accepted; I'll let you decide how well. -GM]
I walked down Rue Saint-Paul, weaving between tourists on the old town street, until I reached Rue Saint-Gabriel. Just past the steakhouse was an unmarked door, which I found cracked open for air. It was a well-equipped bakery that the owner rented out to various caterers who needed a commercial-grade space to work in.
I slipped inside and down the brick hallway until I found the kitchen. As I figured, Sophie was there, making cheesecakes for a corporate party in Milton Park. She made a not inconsiderable salary from catering to wealthy business types, and she deserved it. Cheesecakes were her specialty, and when I say she took them seriously, I mean she had a painter's pallet knife which she heated in simmering water, quickly dried on a tea towel, and used to smooth the tops of the cheesecakes until they were absolutely flawless. She was leaning over the table, back to me.
"Bonjour!" I called.
She turned around. She was of French descent, a bit shorter than me, with thick chestnut hair below her shoulders, big dark eyes, and the freckles over her cheeks that so many of the Quebecoise had. She wore an old tee shirt and denim shorts and had smudges of flour on her face and in her hair.
"Oh, it's you!" she said. "What are you doing in here?" She probably knew the answer.
"Taking a break from writing."
"Getting into trouble, you mean?"
"I need something to write about," I said with a wink. "The master is at work, I see. Almost done?"
"I just need to glaze them," she said. A dozen cheesecakes were lined up on the table. One of them was fire engine red.
"What's that one?" I asked.
"That's white chocolate with a cherry mirror glaze."
She had one of the cakes on a rack over a pan. She poured a pitcher of glaze over the cake -- it looked like molten red wax, and nearly as shiny as a mirror. She added a big black cherry on top.
"Before you ask," she said because, in my curiosity, I always asked, "it's cherries, lemon juice, and caster sugar. In a blender, I mean. Then simmered."
She picked up a big mason jar full of cherries in a red liquid. She had that little glint in her eye, and if you've never seen it in the eye of a Quebecoise, you need to remedy that.
She pulled a cherry from the jar and put it to my lips with a smile. I kept my eyes locked on hers as I chewed it. It was sweet and tart and I suddenly noticed that it numbed my tongue.
"What's in that jar?" I asked.
"Vodka," she laughed.
She dabbed some of the cherry vodka on my lips and licked it off with a grin.
That's all I could stand. I kissed her hard, hands going behind her, cupping her ass and pulling her tightly against me. Then I left a trail of hot cherry kisses up the side of her neck to her ear.
"Oh, god...I've gotta finish this!" she groaned.
"You started it," I purred into her ear before nibbling the lobe. There was no way I'd let this little French delicacy get away.
I kneaded her ass as I kissed her and she got her hands under my tee, stroking my back and waist. I pulled her shirt over her head and kissed down her neck to between her breasts, backing her against the table, and she reached behind and unclasped her bra. I reached over and put two fingers into the pitcher with the glaze -- it was lukewarm.
