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Four days.
Foi gras au torchon takes exactly four days from preparation to consumption.
Yet in preparation for her welcoming dinner to her new home, Malachi spent the four days elbow-deep in ingredients, measuring, slicing, draining, cooking— all for her.
All for his Olive.
Numerous people had criticized the meal. 'Serious Eats' a mediocre tumblr page went as far as questioning the meal and its chefs. "..a cured, fattened duck liver barely cooked and rolled up in a kitchen towel? What the heck kind of a dish is that?"
Their ignorance and lack of specified tastes towards such divine, yet macabre meals hardly irked Malachi. He could not blame the less educated. Foi gras au torchon was an acquired taste, much like any other painfully expensive dish.
Far be it for Americans to love anything that isn't deep fried or slathered in cheese, he thinks amusedly slicing through the lobe to the vein, following its path and pulling the foie apart to see the vein clearly.
The first day was always messy. The exposure and removal of veins which surfaced blood that sleeked the Danby marble counters of his kitchen and hands. The blood was glossy and still vibrant red, and indication of how healthy the duck's liver was.
It tainted his hands, and when he brought those slender skillful fingers to his mouth, licking thoughtfully on the blood, it painted his mouth a vicious red too.
Four days.
He had began to prepare the meal before bringing his Olive to their abode. They arrived on day three as his meal sat at room temperature.
While she lay unconscious one floor above, he proceeded with the liver. Rolling it into a log, twisting and squeezing the ends of the parchment to help compact it.
Afterwards he unwraps the foie, discards the paper and transfer it onto a cheesecloth only to roll it to force the foie into a compact log again.
Malachi thoroughly doubted that Olive had acquired any sort of expensive taste, let alone a civilized one.
Over the three months of watching her every step, every meal, he concluded that the most expensive dish she had was at a restaurant. Pork.
Even then despite her being of legal age, she did not consume wine. Only beer and coolers.
"In time," he hums in time to J.S Bach whilst reaching for a butcher's knife, carefully laying the blunt edge along a thick limestone and swiping it back and forth, sharpening the edge. He counts eight tilted strokes on each side before the blade is sharp enough to effortlessly cut through the liver.
Malachi stills then, amidst slicing, and cocks his head to the side listening to any sort of sound above. An indication that she had woken. For a moment, he wonders if he had miscalculated the chlorofom dosage, having administered a lesser amount. But there is no sound and he relaxes, sawing the liver.
Submerging the foie gras in stock, he lets it simmer whilst preparing an ice bath and soaking it for ten minutes.
Malachi loses track of time throughout, and not until he gazes up at the kitchen window that overlooked his herb garden, does he notice darkness spreading through the forest like a fog.
He wraps the final product in a cloth, rolling it tightly as possible, before placing it on the top shelf of the refrigerator.
Tomorrow she will wake and they would dine.
The next morning found Malachi in the house's cellar, casually drifting from one barrel to the next, rasping his knuckles on them before twisting the tops open and lowering his nose, inhaling the stale sour smell of well aging wine yet to be packaged.
Stepping away from the barrels, he moves towards the wooden shelves with hands formally clasped behind his back, inspecting each dusted bottle from top to bottom. For the foie gras au torchon, clarice is chateau d'yquem wine would be most preferable. Red wine that isn't overpowering.
And besides, it would be her first time drinking wine, it would have to be memorable. And not all too strong.
Although he wouldn't mind catching brief glimpses of her drunk self. Intoxicated people are all too willing and less uptight.
He could almost envision her sitting across him by the table, cheeks flushed rosy red, hazel eyes glazed over and slightly hooded as she leans forward in that flirtatious manner. Those long obsidian lashes that brush her upper cheeks, and that mouth; bittersweet altogether.
"No," he chastises himself halfheartedly, then settles for the light red wine.
He opted for a cold shower to calm his nerves, then stood before the bathroom mirror, carefully tracing the shaving blade across his jawline then neck in slow upward strokes, clearing the cream and stubble.
Malachi stared at his profile once done. His expression was serene, his complexion ridiculously healthy; no stress lines or signs of exhausting all-nighters.
He was relaxed, tall and handsome; carefree in beige slacks and a black shirt, the world at his feet. He made his way downstairs to set the dining table; Foie gras au torchon with a late harvest of vidal sauce with dried and fresh figs.
Once done, he sits and pours himself a quarter amount of the wine, gripping the glass by the stem and swirling it near his nose before tentatively sipping.
Sweet and thick. Much like he wanted.
The silence was disrupted by the consistent ticking of the grandpa clock overhead. He waited. He stared. He drunk. Five minutes twisted to fifteen then thirty and at forty five, he downed the last of the wine and rose from his seat.
Olive had not yet woken.
How strong had been the dose he administered? Perhaps there was a miscalculation?
Approaching her bedroom door, he lingers by the entrance and listens past the wooden barrier, ears tilting to the steady sound of her heartbeat. She was alive, that much knowledge was enough to ease his worry.
Gently nudging the door open, Malachi steps into the cool darkness, feet silently propelling him towards the bed where her figure lay above the sheets.
Olive is arguably the most beautiful yet normal looking female he had ever seen.
Despite the darkness, he sees each distinguished feature. Her short curled hair roughly spread across the pillow, eyelids the color of a starry night and those eyes hidden from view in slumber.
She was fresh-faced, her lips artfully curbed and delectably pink, the same pale tinge as her nipples.
"Pretty as a picture," Malachi muses, gently stroking her cheek, his dark eyes smoldering.
The pad of his thumb trails along her jawline then chin, rising slightly to press on her bottom lip. Her mouth is soft, warm breath fanning his hand intimately.
A memory passes him then; one where his Olive sits out on the front lawn in shorts and a bikini top, watering her mother's flowers.
She was sucking on a lollipop, lips pouting each time she popped it out, pink tongue tracing in circular motions—
Malachi groans, carefully lifting his hand from her mouth and slipping them into his pockets. His body was growing hot, galvanic effects of her surging blood towards his manhood which slowly came to life and strained beneath the zipper of his pants.
He begins to step back only to still, sapphire eyes lingering on her face, tracing her button nose that stops short of that delectable mouth.
So fuckable.
He wonders how her lips would feel wrapped around his throbbing cock. The warmth of her mouth as her soft tongue lolled around him, like a lollipop. The soft jerking of her throat as it involuntarily contracted around the head as she took it in like his good girl.
His palm surreptitiously rubs against his crotch, then after a moment, works the button and zipper open before reaching in for it. Still partly limp, Malachi works himself to life in slow, long strokes.
He sees her kneeling before him, small hands wrapping around his cock which twitches from contact. The tip of her tongue carefully licking his slit, drawing pre-cum. Her eyes drooping shut in relief as she takes him in halfway first before retreating.
His hand would run through her hair, securing at the back as he guides her deeper and deeper still, until her nails pleadingly dug into the front of his thighs.
But he wouldn't stop, not when tears brim along her long lashes. Neither when she begins to gag and choke, slobbers of spit forming between her pouted bruised lips and his cock which each retreat.
She would beg for more, trace the vein beneath his cock with the flat of her tongue down to his balls and perineum—
"Fuck," Malachi's eyes snapped open, hand shooting out like a viper and catching the Jets of cum which threatened to land on her face.
One drop landed on her cheekbone.
She did not wake.
(05)
Her senses begin to return one at a time; she feels the softness of a mattress pressed beneath her belly, the touch of a light sheet spread over her back. Briefly, she simply stares at the wall in hazy stupor.
Her mouth tastes as though a baby dragon had used it for a potty, and the faint thumps of a headache phantomed between her brows, like a toothache in her brain.
"Ugh," she mumbles, carefully pushing herself up only to stutter as her stomach clenched.
Nausea rose quick and sharp, causing a galvanic effect as she blindly shot from the bed and raced on Jell-O legs towards a random door, which she unconsciously presumed to be the bathroom.
