Well, Gentle Reader, we meet again. Now let us be clear, shall we? This story is hardcore and it gets more so in this chapter. If you are turned off by body functions, if you find scat and puke and snot turnoffs, do NOT read this. If you think gluttony is bad, even when it is enjoyed, you should find alternative entertainment. But If you are fascinated, as I am, by the dark side, by the bizarre side, of human sexuality, well, join me, and let's see how Ashley and David continue their descent into debauchery. But remember, my friend, you have been warned.
"What's this?" I asked, a stupid question. What it was, was pretty obvious.
The garage had been cleaned, and the floor painted. In the middle sat a table looking straight out of a movie about the Italian Mafia. The tablecloth was red and white checked. There was an honest-to-God big pear-shaped wine bottle in the middle of the table with candle wax artfully dripped down the sides.
He smiled and said, "I wanted to try a completely uninhibited date night."
"Honey," I said, "I'm hardly inhibited."
"You'll see," he said, "Now sit."
He seated me, doing the holding-the-chair-and-then-pushing-it-gently-as-I-sat thing, kissed the top of my head, whispered, "Be right back," and went through the connecting door to the house.
I looked around, fascinated at how well he had transformed this section of the garage into a restaurant. A panel separated this area from the rest of the big space. Interesting pictures were on the walls and on one wall were framed photographs of famous Italian gangsters. I recognized Capone and imagined that the other pictures were Luciano and Nitti and the rest of the famous 1930s Italian underworld. From the little Bose Wave radio soft music, heavy on violins, was playing. The overhead light had been dimmed.
He swept into the room, a white towel folded carefully over his forearm and a silver tray I had never seen before balanced on his palm. He was the perfect image of a professional waiter in a high-end restaurant.
"A sweet appetizer for my sweet," he said, placing a big piece of a chocolate lava cake before me and then sitting to my right and beginning to feed it to me.
The cake was delicious and I wondered if he had added baking to his skill set. He wasn't "stuffing" me, as he sometimes did, and for every third bite he fed me he would take one himself.
When the cake was finished he carefully wiped my lips and then his own, stood, kissed me, and took the dishes away.
He returned in a minute with the silver tray loaded. I watched, fascinated as he carried it, balanced on his palm, in that way you see in movies or in the most exclusive restaurants. He placed the tray on the little stand by the table and then the big serving bowl of spaghetti swimming in a thick red sauce and topped with a dozen meatballs before me. A separate plate with a half loaf of Italian bread soaked in butter and redolent of garlic, topped with lightly toasted Parmesan cheese. He poured a big glass of the harsh red wine with a flourish before he sat beside me and started feeding me.
Again, this wasn't "stuffing," as we often did. It was feeding and with spaghetti and red sauce, he worked the napkin after every bite. A bite of spaghetti, a bite of meatball, a bite of garlic bread, and a drink of wine. My feeding went on like that until my oversize appetite was fully sated. David had been taking a bite for every three or four of mine, and for the first time in a long time, his belly was stretching his pants.
With both of us finally full he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little brown bottle that I recognized. David had hired a pharmacist and they had worked up a formula to induce my vomiting but something that acted more slowly and less, well, violently than the Ipecac he had used at first. The "time release" action allowed us to make love after dinner before my nightly trip to the toilet.
He poured the thick syrup into a glass of wine and handed it to me.
I drank, as I did every night now, but was surprised when he took the glass back and put it to his lips.
"David," I said, feeling my eyes big.
He smiled and took a drink.
"I want to share everything with you," he said, handing the glass back.
"Oh, God," I moaned but deep in my belly, I felt a sudden stirring, a delightful tingle between my legs.
We shared the wine then and when it was done he helped me stand, moved the chair to the edge of the room, took the dishes away, and pushed the table to the other edge of the room.
He plugged a little flash drive into the USB port of the Bose Wave radio and when slow music started, Julie London singing
Cry Me A River
if it matters, he held his hand out and said, "Dance with me."
"David," I said, closing the distance between us and laying my right hand in his proffered left, my left hand on his shoulder, and enjoying the feeling of his right hand laying lightly on my hip, "What are you doing?"
"I told you," he said, "I want to share everything with you."
"David," I said, loving the feeling of his arm around me, well, as far as he could reach around me, and the hardness of his chest against my cheek, "I know what you keep saying. I know, and I agree, that you think, as you put it, good sex is often messy but never dirty."
I giggled and pushed myself far enough away to focus on his eyes, "But if that lava cake appetizer contained what I'm pretty sure it did, we're going to get VERY dirty."
He smiled, kissed me, and nuzzled my neck in that way that always got to me.
"Messy," he breathed in my ear, his breath warm and moist, "and I'll clean up afterward."
I giggled, pulled him down by the hair, kissed him, and giggled a little as I said, "Dirty. And you're damn right you're cleaning up afterward."
He laughed and swept me back into the dance.
I accepted it, then, accepted what would come, and smiled, relishing him.
We danced through Bobby Vinton doing
Blue on Blue
and Percy Sledge doing
When A Man Loves A Woman
