The Bet
My husband is a merchant. We live in the thriving port of Calais above our small warehouse on the Boulevard St. Christophe. He is a canny and very successful importer of spices and dried herbs with which he supplies many of the kitchens of the bourgeoisie as well as the restaurants throughout the region. One of my passions is cooking, and I love to wander through the warehouse sniffing, and sometimes tasting, the exotic wares stacked neatly on deep wooden racks. Amid the huge timber beams, I plot and scheme my next culinary adventure, sometimes planning a menu for Henri's clients and sometimes just for the two of us. Cooking challenges me whether it's inventing a lime, cream and fennel sauce for the pork I'm serving or searching the market for fresh eggs, chives and parsley for Henri's breakfast. A well-prepared meal is a seduction of the senses. I am proud of the fact that I contribute to Henri's success by seducing his clients with my cooking. I often dream about being the chef of my own exclusive restaurant, but Henri is conservative in some ways and is uncomfortable with the idea of a working wife.
My other passion is Henri. Whenever possible, I combine my obsessions by choreographing a quiet candlelit supper followed by lovemaking as a seamless sensual experience for us both. A typical seduction starts early in the morning with some gentle erotic play; kissing, stroking and tweaking to enhance the appetite. It is still early when I leave the house to search out my ingredients; perhaps fresh trout, cream, mushrooms, white burgundy, and onions. Herbs and spices I can get from the warehouse. After lunch, I prepare the bread dough and set it aside covered with a damp cloth. I muse on how this small lump of dough grows so greatly under my ministrations. This gets me thinking about Henri and I wonder whether a damp cloth would have the same effect on him! Later in the afternoon, I lay the table with a fine Venetian lace tablecloth and Genoese crystal. I bath, powder and perfume myself and dress very simply in a single garment -- one of Henri's shirts. It is long enough that the tails just cover my bottom, and by fastening only a few of the buttons, I can provide Henri with tantalizing glimpses as I serve dinner.
Just before Henri arrives home, and when the cooking is well under way, I let down my long hair and comb it out. I meet Henri at the door with soft kisses and he cups my buttocks and draws me to him. He bathes and we sip a glass of Burgundy and share the day. He tells me about the smuggler who offered to take some of his merchandise to Dover for a sizable cut, and I tell him about the gossip the fish monger passed on to me about the Burgomaster's wife. With the candles lit, the crystal glinting in their glow, I draw Henri to the table and ply him with creamed mushroom trout. After the main course, I fill a small glass with calvados, and serve him runny camembert on my nipples or a piece of apple between my teeth. It's not long before our clothes are on the floor and we are in the throes of passion. Afterwards, Henri serves me coffee and we talk of this and that while he clears up and does the dishes.
We have been married fifteen years, and the only lasting sadness in our lives is that we have no children. We have been to many physicians who have prescribed remedies ranging from the outlandish to the disgusting, but all to no avail. One quack had me eating a portion of raw liver every day for a month to increase my monthly issue. Another administered a revolting potion to Henri that caused him to be hugely and painfully erect, and yet such was his discomfort that he could not complete the act with me. Henri has always longed for children and it grieves me to see the fleeting expression of sadness cross his face when he sees our friends' children, or when their exploits and achievements come up in conversation.
Henri is a good man; always attentive to me. Although he has always had an appreciative eye for a pretty woman, I am completely confident in his fidelity to me. He is that rarity; a man who treats me as his equal in every way, valuing my opinions and insights as much as his own. He is a wonderful listener and fully supportive of my ideas. Oh, he has his faults too, as do I. We both have streak of obstinacy in us that can draw out petty arguments unnecessarily, and he has a terrible time admitting he is wrong. When he makes a mistake, or lets someone down, he is apt to become depressed and irritable.
Our intimate life is joyful. We enjoy touching each other and being touched, provoking each other and being provoked. We tease each other mercilessly and reward each other freely. We play with each other's bodies in the way that children play with their toys. Our play is often delightfully silly. One time when Henri emerged from a cold bath, I reproached him for his tiny penis; hardly a complement to me. To improve his size, I held a silver mustard pot on the offending member and aroused him with kisses and stroking. In no time at all, the mustard pot was jammed on Henri's swelling penis, and waving around with his every move. We both laughed ourselves to tears until we discovered that the pot was stuck and beginning to hurt. In the end, I covered my nakedness and dowsed him with cold water until the pot came loose.
It was a hot July day. The usual dockside sounds seemed more muted than usual and the whole city drowsed under the noonday sun. Business was quiet and Henri had taken a longer lunch break than usual. In deference to the weather, we had stripped. Henri, who hated the heat, lay on the chaise fanning himself lethargically while I teased him by dancing lewdly around the room. Despite his obvious arousal, Henri seemed irritable as I made myself comfortable on the floor massaging his scrotum while sucking and licking the tip of his penis.
"You really are insatiable," he said.
I let go of him as if I'd been stung. While I loved the intimacy we shared, there were many times I seduced him out of love rather than need.
"You need me, a lot more than I need you," I retorted, furiously pulling on my clothes.
"Not true," Henri snarled. "You need sex more than I do."
