The day was winding slowly down as I sat in my office wishing I had already finished my last proposal of the week. My chef's jacket no longer crisp and white, looked as wilted as the lettuce I had refused earlier; my checked pants were spotted with bittersweet chocolate and the liquor of dozens of oysters. The kitchen was shut, the restaurant empty and quiet. Now in the late night calm all that loomed ahead was some paperwork.
My next client was beyond difficult-demanding, rude and possessing the most awful palate of any human I had ever had the displeasure of creating for in my life. I pulled my auburn curls loose from the bun I had screwed them into early that morning and shook the tumbling twists out over my shoulders.
As a Chef, who caters to a somewhat eccentric clientele, I am used to long hours and the money is fantastic-but these prima donnas that can't taste the difference between cat food and albacore tuna irritate me. I looked over Mrs. Modal’s latest requests and almost dropped the paperwork. She wants a dinner composed of aphrodisiacs; the unpleasant image of her ropy, veined fingers feeding the pool boy made me shudder. Her request was intriguing at the very least and the cost of such a feast would certainly allow me to complete some of the necessary renovations on my "handyman's special."
I was far too busy to have purchased an ancient farm house-with the restaurant thriving and my catering business booming I could not even begin the renovations that would have turned the house into a home. I wanted so badly to scrap this work and head home to a long shower and then to bed. But since the shower wasn't finished I’d only be heading home to a trickle of lukewarm water and plaster dust.
I kicked off my clogs and stretched my long legs out onto the desk. All day on my feet, and now a long night of research ahead of me. Where to begin the research for this?
I pursued my texts and then found some wonderful food history books and started to stack them on my desk. The stack grew until I stopped myself-enough reading for a week-I headed out to the bar to hunt for some liquid inspiration. Mmmm, a sweet bottle of a local winery's berry wine-and some Parmesan crackers to nibble upon.
Not exactly a nutritious dinner, so I head to the walk-in and grab a bowl of fresh raspberries and a slice of Brie. Juggling the plates and the wine I headed to my office. I kicked the door shut behind me, and lay out my picnic. I unbuttoned the jacket and un- tucked my gray tank top. I skimmed the books as I layered crackers with shavings of Brie and fragrant berries. The wine slipped easily down my throat and after an hour or so I was pleasantly warm and relaxed. The research had gone from dry to far more interesting; maybe it was the wine.
I began to debate the menu choices and memories of my favorite erotic meals crept forth. Despite the reputation of foods such as oysters I realized wistfully that my most passionate meals had been evocative of the men whose bodies had been my inspirations.
I had always believed that the fastest way into a man's soul was through an impeccably prepared meal with me as at least one, if not two courses. Now I was so busy it had been a very long time since I had catered to my whims.
My mind conjured up past lovers and the meals I had shared with them. The sexual tensions intermingling with the ingredients I had used to bewitch their taste buds. My first lover had been seduced with the foods of his childhood. Sweet, young Noah-a good Jewish boy, and I had take his mother's recipes and used them to slowly rip his innocence from him. Almost as easy as shelling an oyster-slipping his hunger for me between the shell of youth and twisting the knife so quickly it slipped apart revealing a smooth pearl.
My youth had made me careless also, too much garlic, coarsely ground matzo instead of fine. Mistakes that I learned from, as I learned to prepare the horseradish and beets he loved with the gefilte fish. Watching his smile as I presented silky chicken broth, fragrant with parsley lapping at the globes of the matzo balls. His joy at my work in the kitchen was repaid ten fold. His hands stroking my flesh, my neck and shoulders yielding to his gentle massage. As time passed and I tempted him with halvah and macaroons, my tender breasts were lavished with kisses. His mouth nibbling and suckling at me until my come cries made him blush.
Eventually, my virginity was lost after hours of kisses sweet with honey and sunshine. His mouth working, tasting every inch of me until I was lost to it. My hands clenching his back and shoulders as he drank me. Noah was amazingly gentle, afraid to push or bite. Yet he could not disguise his astonishment at my orgasms, his pleasure at causing them was in itself erotic to me. I was so eager to feel him and experience the forbidden fruit that I think I may have coerced him. His body possessing mine for the first time, skills learned from sweaty teenaged dreams, I was in heaven.
High school memories cloyingly sweet like the charosh at Passover.
I had let my fingers trace my collarbone and without realizing it I had begun stroking my throat and neck. My nipples hardening under the now damp material of my tank top.
I had not thought of Noah in decade-high school lovers lost in a sea of adulthood. Odd how clearly I could recall his mouth and our passions. Yet I found myself unable to recall our break up-blame it on the wine. Another drama that was the extravagance of youth, I vaguely recall not listening to a certain Peter Gabrielle album until the early 1990s-it must have had "our song" on it. I chuckled and poured another glass of wine. I popped a berry into my mouth and press it to the roof of my mouth; the juices flowed over my tongue.
The berries reminded me of a college love, a perfect summer romance. My Texas boy, David, tall, lanky and so able to taunt me into utter submission. He was so scholarly looking, very well spoken and intelligent. Too intelligent, hours were spent bantering with him, over every possible subject. A classmate of mine in an Ethics class, we debated endlessly and of course contempt and sarcasm soon led to passion. He was utterly irresistible; a full foot taller than my 5’4", with a slight twang in his voice and wide shoulders. An argument over barbecue had actually set it all off, the sex following the meal was some of the best I had ever had up to then-the barbecue was undoubtedly the best I have ever had in my life.
We spent hours marinating the meat and he refused to tell me the ingredients of hid spice rub. I joking offered to suck it out of him and soon I found myself kneeling in front of him. He leaned against the kitchen counter and coolly watched me unbutton his worn jeans. I don't think he looked away until after I had worked my mouth over the tip of his cock. The kitchen was pungent with chili powder and vinegar, smelling the marinade as I sucked him was sensory overload. As the acids broke down the fibers in the beef I slowly worked my small, wet mouth up and down the length of my argumentative friend. His hands slipped into my hair, tangling as he held my head. My mouth still taunting him, slow licks all over the base. My tongue feather light, then sucking each ball into my mouth. Opening my throat to take him deeply then laving him up and down, my tongue tasting all of him.
Finally he pulled out, and running his fingers over my bruised lips he whispered, "Awww, poor baby is too hungry." The twang rumbling in his throat and making me weak in the knees. He effortlessly lifted me on to the table and proceeded to make love to me so slowly I thought I would die.
His voice low and deep in my ears as he patiently explained that he would take me as slowly as the beef should cook, that way I would always remember to make the recipe correctly. I was soaking wet and screaming as I was finally allowed to come. My orgasm milking him, his stamina amazes me. I was spread totally open, his length sliding deeper, then pulling out. He constantly kissed and bit my neck, my breasts sore from his mouth. The pain and pleasure melding and pushing me further than I thought possible.
