Gourmet Tastes

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 bostancı escort 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.

I was begging him to let me orgasm, pleading as I struggled to catch my breath. Leaning forward and ramming himself deeper still he once again murmured, “Awww, I ümraniye escort bayan am mighty sorry ma’am, and I can’t let you finish yet.”

His teasing and tormenting me had me fully riled, When he released my hands I grabbed his head and kissed him as I bucked my hips. So wild for him, I rolled my pelvis and found myself coming again and again on his still throbbing cock. Finally, he looked deep into my eyes and pronounced me tenderized-I was wrung out and exhausted. His then thrust hard and filled me with his come. The heat and force drew forth yet another orgasm from me.

The aftermath of our sexual feast was some of the most meltingly tender beef I had ever tasted. The aged Angus beef and his secret rub tantalized me-my mouth burned from the peppers and my sore lips tingled from the tangy cider vinegar. True to his style the burning was soothed by sweet, hot cornbread. The edges crisp and flavorful with cracklings, the inside silken and loaded with butter.

I spent hours trying to coax the recipes from him-much to our mutual satisfaction. My mouth sore and bruised but oh so very happy. The rewards of my diligence were numerous spice combinations and a healthy respect for beef in all it’s most flavorful forms. Texas caviar, smoky black-eyed peas and sweet tea complimented the meals he taught me to cook. My body blossomed under his slow and powerful lovemaking. If I ever tried to rush anything he’d gently restrain me until he’d broken my willful spirit. I felt as though I was in a sort of love rodeo-damn those cowboys.

I had bitten my lip and that snapped me back to the present. My mouth syrupy from the wine and now with a bruised lip, and no proposal. I shook my head and tried to clear the miasma of sex from my brain. Try as I might the sight of David’s hands on my skin lingered. I stretched trying to regain my composure. Thankful that I was alone I dared to run my hand over my now swollen nipples and across my stomach-I stopped at the waistband of my pants. I wanted so badly to lose myself in my memories and release the tension but I forced myself to continue working.

This menu would never get itself done if I continued to be this distracted-I was too lonely if menu planning was this interesting. I looked over one of the articles on cultural influences and found some ingredients used to heat the blood. The flavors of ginger and peppers are thought to warm the blood and result in passion “flowering.” I surrendered to yet another memory and relaxed and actually closed my eyes as it flowed over me.

Nyguen, my lover from Vietnam, and the exotic scents and tastes that still called up his ghost for me. I spent a year in a Vietnamese kitchen studying and watching the style of cooking so wonderfully familiar and foreign. The French techniques and the mysterious ingredients artfully combined to entrance me. Nyguen was the son of one of our chefs. I had only recently begun to learn the language-luckily I was able to pick it up quickly since the languages in the kitchen were exclusively French and Vietnamese. He sat watching me as I scurried to obey his mother’s request for basil. I found out later he spoke almost no Viet and precious little French. I caught him staring at me and dared to smile-he was so American looking. He sat in the doorway wearing a leather jacket and jeans. His silken hair long and wild-looking every inch a rock and roll star. The guitar case covered with stickers from his latest tour. Home for a brief visit heed come to the restaurant to convince his mother he needed some home cooked meals. As Americanized as he looked his taste buds still craved the food of his youth.

His mother decided to invite me to share in their meal. I was eager to practice what I had learned so far-and very excited about spending an evening with this exotic creature.

I packed my knife kit and off we went to their apartment. I chatted with Nyguen on the way in English. I had not spoken it for a few weeks and it sounded strange to me. His eyes roved me as we laughed and flirted. I luxuriated in his gaze-reptilian and detached, but hungry like I was potential prey.

Once inside the apartment I was ushered past the ancestor altars and soon I stood surrounded kartal escort by mounds of chai gaoi and pots of rice vermicelli. Nyguen sang and played his guitar, as I skillfully julienned gingerroot and lemon grass. A lacy chiffonade of basil, mint and cilantro flew beneath my cleaver. My chef watched my fingers moisten the delicate wrappers that soon would be foiled to bursting with succulent shrimp and minced vegetables. His smile made me nervous, and his teasing in English became quite blunt. Luckily his mother paid his English little mind as she corrected my seasonings.

Finally after hours of preparations we sat down to eat. She tasted and approved and then retired, sliding the doors closed behind her.

Alone and intoxicated on the heady scents I grew bolder, the sight of the chop ticks grasping the tender food reminded me of dragon claws. The tang of the lemon grass, along with the fire of the chilies was so familiar but mingling with the fishy flavor of the nuoc mam and the searing hot spring rolls it was a sublime experience. Nyguen began to feed me-hot bites of fried chai gaoi wrapped in cool lettuce then dipped in the pungent nuoc cham. My taste buds were under his spell. The pork and rice vermicelli defied all my previous expectations. The smoky pork wrapped in vermicelli and garnished with peanuts and chopped basil, I actually sighed out loud. He enjoyed my reactions, and soon I found myself being fed small bites of mango, the juices I eagerly licked from his fingers.

My mouth was offered other delicacies-fresh young coconut and shaved ice drenched in the milk of the coconut was followed by kisses. He was utterly without apologies as he pulled me into his room. I watched my hunger for him gnawing at my loins; he stripped of the American clothes and revealed a tawny body. His skin was golden, muscles curling beneath the flesh catlike as he released that magnificent hair-a black mane that rolled down his back. He smelled of citrus and fresh cut grass, with a smoky scent like jasmine incense-now with all pretenses stripped away he became utterly foreign. His dark almond eyes watching every reaction that he coaxed from me. My skin so white against him, my pleasure so evident and so uncontrolled. He stroked me slowly, once again dragon claws-never rending my flesh but making me helpless nonetheless. I felt his hair fall across my skin as he moved down my body, mouth, hands, tongue, and hair all separate elements all combined. My moans were captured in his mouth as he softly probed with kisses tasting of ginger. My sighs and mews were richly rewarded as he rolled me over and started at the nape of my neck. He worked his way down my spine, licking and blowing softly across the damp skin-by the time he finished with my back I was supple as silk in his arms. The journey down the back of my thighs and to my ankles was slower than I thought possible. I was a prisoner and my thighs parted as he eased himself into me. A position I had only ever thought of as doggie soon became dragon as he bit and writhed his way into me,

I felt him twisting into me and would have screamed from the pleasure had he not suddenly captured my mouth. His hair cascading over my shoulders, adding a silken torment to his thrusts. I moved with him, my orgasms building and crashing like waves.

His hands were everywhere at once, cupping my breasts, clawing my back.

He stroked slowly and shallowly then would plunge hard and deep-my body releasing all tension only to have it build again as his mouth tore at my neck or his fingers pulled at my flesh.

He teased until I was crying for release then he relented and flowed into me-I imagined his fluid scalding me-but instead it coaxed a final wave from me and then we both collapsed. I snuggled against him trying to catch my breath. He whispered a warning that sex with him was like Chinese food-I would be hungry in an hour for more. I drifted into a blissful nap and was awakened delightfully by his kisses. I have never had a job I enjoyed so thoroughly the dismal pay was totally worth the hours in his bed.

With the hazy images of his skin pressed hot and hard into me I crept my hand into my pants-the crotch of my underwear was soaked. I slipped a hesitant finger into the wetness. Just then I heard the shocked gasp of my contractor, and the thud of wallpaper samples as they slid out of his hands onto the floor. I struggled to gather myself, blushing furiously as he stood in the doorway.

(to be continued)