Taste of Love

by

Alicia Night Orchid

more stories on Adult Blog Directory

(Copyright 2005 All Rights Reserved)

(This story originally appeared at Oysters and Chocolate. It was runner up in their "Hot Tamales" contest of 2006).

We begin with an amuse bouche—a delicate round of seedless watermelon floating in a ginger-shallot cream sauce, surrounded by emerald green cilantro oil. The watermelon round hosts a spoonful of sashimi tuna marinated in soy, ginger, garlic and chili, topped by a pale yellow mango crisp.

Wallace observes that he enjoyed a similar dish earlier in the summer. That sauce, however, was an anis emulsion, which he believes offered better balance. You have to respect Wallace, because he’s eaten everything and carries the paunch to show it.

Camille complains that her mango crisp isn’t really that crisp, having suffered the unfortunate fate of absorbing the tuna’s marinade. She finishes her second glass of champagne and prods Wallace for another. She’s wearing more jewelry than I own, but is unable to hide the look of someone whose age has caught up with her all at once. There’s a looseness to her flesh, as if she’s wearing her wrinkled skin as a body suit. It’s rumored that she once slept with Bill Clinton, or was it Newt Gingrich? Camille can be indelicate, but her palate is unmatched—so long as she remains sober.

It’s Laci’s reaction I’m interested in. I watch as the watermelon melts in her mouth. Her warm brown eyes, set wide apart in a tan, boyish face, flutter sensuously. “They should have sautéed the ginger and shallot in higher-fat butter,” she concludes. “The butter they used caused the shallot to caramelize and burn, overwhelming the delicacy of the dish.”

She’s an ex-chef at a three-star restaurant in Los Angeles and has been food critic for a major east-coast newspaper for the past ten years. Even Wallace is impressed with her observation and his loud harrumph confirms it.

“What do you think, Alana?” Laci turns her whole body toward me in a sweeping motion.

I think she’s the most self-assured woman I’ve ever met. I think her taste is impeccable. I think how wonderful it would be to kiss her, run my tongue across her perfect teeth, smear her red lipstick. It’s hard to resist the urge to lick the smudge of cream sauce from the corner of her luscious mouth.

“What makes the dish is the tuna,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I am. “Let’s face it, this is the most delicious tuna any of us has ever eaten and each cube is as perfectly diced as its sister.”

“No denying the tuna,” Wallace agrees.

Laci smiles condescendingly. We both know I’m a token at the table, the food critic for the local paper, while my table companions are international gourmands with a global following. “This is good tuna,” she admits. “Too bad the sauce overwhelms it.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Camille says, stifling a yawn, “OK, OK, I’m ready to move on. What’s next? Are we having the Sauvignon Blanc or have we decided on that overpriced Pinot Grigio?”

Laci winks at me. “I could probably teach you a thing or two.”

I wish she would and I tell her so.

* * *

For our first course, Camille and I have selected Pacific prawns on a bed of fire-roasted tomato risotto. The shrimp is sweet and tender with a hint of the open sea, the risotto creamy and rich. Fresh peas dot the dish’s surface, varying both the appearance and texture. A pinch of micro-greens adds interest and a surprising burst of flavor.

“Oh my God,” Camille tilts her head back and stares heavenward theatrically.

“It’s wonderful,” I say. “I love the peas. Crunchy on the outside. Like velvet on the inside.”

“The shrimp is perfect. And, there are even bits of lobster in the risotto,” Camille reports to the table. “Delicious, just delicious.”

Wallace and Laci have opted for scallops. A pan-seared cylinder of flesh resides on a bed of sautéed leeks. A beet juice reduction, a dazzling crimson concoction, criss- crosses the plate, reminiscent of a Jackson Pollack painting.

“Yes,” Wallace says. “Very nice.”

Laci nods. “My scallop is slightly overcooked, but otherwise it’s wonderful.”

Camille shoots her a glance. “Ah, yes, but you like it pink on the inside, don’t you?”

Laci smiles naughtily. “I’ve been known to.”

“I remember only too well.”

“Ladies, please,” Wallace intervenes. “It’s more than an old man can contemplate.”

Laci rolls a bite of scallop in the beet reduction, spears a leek round, and offers me a bite. “How do you like it?”

The scallop is like butter from the sea, the beet and leek earthy and sweet. I lick lingering juices from my lips. “Incredible,” I breathe.

Laci downs the rest of it in one bite. “Scallops should quiver on the inside,” she instructs, pointing her fork at me. “Otherwise, this is excellent.”

“Next,” Camille waves for the waiter. “It’s time for something more robust. We need a white burgundy or a chardonnay.”

Wallace fills her glass with the last of the Pinot Grigio. Camille takes a sip and leans near him, her mouth at his ear. She whispers something while looking directly at me. Wallace stifles a chortle, before sliding his arm around her shoulders.

“You are such a vamp,” he tells her, to which she merely nods in agreement.

* * *

Laci and I choose a butternut squash soup for our next course, while Camille and Wallace settle on the field greens salad augmented with poached quail’s egg and lamb’s tongue.

The soup, the color of autumn itself, exudes a tangy aroma of star anise, its texture smooth as the underside of your lover’s tongue. As the soup coats my throat I am sated and filled with longing at the same time. I consider discarding my spoon and drinking from the bowl.

Laci’s lips close around the spoon as if she’s sucking a nipple. She nods approvingly. “Oh, my. Now, that is just right. Simple, elegant, ripe with flavor.”

Under the table, she rests a hand on my knee and shoulders up, as if we are co-conspirators in a grand scheme. “Wouldn’t this be nice in front of a fire? I just had a wood burning fire place installed on my patio, next to the Jacuzzi.”

I blink to a fantasy image of naked flesh, dappled with goose bumps, backlit by a flickering flame. She’s a large woman, not obese, just womanly in the classic sense. Her breasts are pendulous, motherly. I imagine her ass—broad, white, and inviting as an unmade bed.

“Maybe you’d like to try it sometime?” I feel her fingers tighten.

“I’ll bring the wine. You make the soup.”

“Something like that,” she says coyly.

Across from us, Camille and Wallace are increasingly chummy. They’ve linked arms to share a sip of the California chardonnay Camille settled on. They’re laughing heartily at who knows what at this point. Camille quaffs her glass. “Watch out for her my young friend,” she tells me. “When she eats a peach, she doesn’t leave the pit.”
“Camille,” I feign embarrassment.

Laci is undaunted. “How’s the salad, Wallace?” she asks.

“The lambs tongue,” he says thoughtfully, “reminds me of a young man from San Diego.”

“He’s such a whore,” Camille says.

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Wallace replies.

Laci’s touch rides a little higher on my thigh. I adjust the napkin on my lap and stroke the back of her hand with my fingertips.

* * *

Between courses, a dollop of lemon sorbet arrives to cleanse our palates. Someone, Wallace I believe, has ordered a peppery Zinfandel. A white wine leaves me edgy and wanting more, but the Zin warms me, fills me.

Once in high school, before declaring myself a lesbian, I allowed a boy to fuck me in his car, a used Ford Expedition that smelled of leather and cigarettes. As a precaution against any and everything, I was on the pill. Because he was a nice boy, I let him come inside, my legs spread wide, feet straining against the back of the front seat. The feeling of red wine hitting bottom reminds me of the sensation of his warm semen bathing the walls of my pussy.

For their main course, Wallace and Camille enjoy a veal loin swimming in a silky demiglace and accompanied by a parsnip puree and an assortment of wild mushrooms and truffles.

Laci and I have chosen the rack of lamb. The scent of rosemary and garlic rising from the medium-rare chops is like coming home from the woods on a winter’s evening. The pink of the flesh is like the pucker of a lover’s ass.

Wallace raises his glass in a toast. “To the chef.”

“To the chef,” we all repeat.

We watch as he inhales a bite from the tines of his fork. His expression is pure bliss. He chews once, twice, and then rinses it down with another sip of wine. “Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes,”

“Now, who did that remind you of?” Camille asks. “The young man from New York or that married fellow from Boston you seduced last week?”

Wallace shakes his head. “Neither, my dear. More like the tender loins of other boys when I was but a boy myself.”

“Tender loins, my ass.” Camille waves a hand over her dish, inhaling the fragrance of the mushrooms. “Oysters, porcini, chanterelles. Black truffles. It’s fucking sex on a goddamn plate.”

The folds of the oyster mushrooms glisten in the dim light and the entire restaurant is suddenly redolent with the truffles. I can’t look away and Camille reads me for the wanton little slut I am. She offers a taste from across the table.

“Oh, I can’t,” I stammer.

“But, you must,” she says. “Never pass up a chance encounter with a fat, black truffle.”

It’s like eating your lover’s pussy for the third time in the same evening, musky and familiar, and no sooner do the juices release in my mouth than they release in my satin panties. Oh, I’m slippery down there all right, slippery as an oyster in its shell. An oyster ready to be shucked and swallowed whole.

“This lamb,” Laci says, “is outstanding. Domestic for sure, not gamy like the Australian lamb Wallace and I had in Philadelphia last week.”

Her measured tone belies her surreptitious movements under the table. I’m still recovering from the truffles, when her hand takes mine and pulls it deep into the crotch of her wool blend slacks. “What do you think, Alana? Have you tried the lamb yet?”

Wallace and Camille are too engaged in their tenderloins and truffles to pay us any mind. “Not yet,” I manage, barely able to speak.

“You really should,” but when I try to withdraw my hand, she clinches powerful thighs together. “Here, I’ll cut it for you.”

Laci reaches across to my plate and slices a bite of lamb. As she feeds me, her forearm brushes my nipple through the silk of my blouse and she might as well have tweaked my clit. Thankfully, she and I are against a wall, and no one can see my hand caressing the fabric between her legs. She’s wet too. I can tell by the way the fabric glides across her slit.

Her eyes are on fire as she watches me devour the lamb. It’s strong, chewy, filling.

“You two, you two!” Camille snaps her fingers at us. “You can take the girl out of the bedroom,” she confides to Wallace, “but you can’t take the bedroom out of the girl. Look at these two lovebirds.”

I pull my hand away from Laci. “You have such a dirty mind,” I tell Camille.

“You wouldn’t have a clue,” she replies, “but you can find out anytime you want.”

“How’s the lamb?” Wallace asks me, saving the moment.

“Luscious, delectable, scrumptious. All these things and more.”

“You’re drunk to boot,” Camille says and tilts her wine glass in my direction. “Short ball hitter” she concludes contemptuously.

“I’ll bet she can go the distance,” Laci says.

‘But can she take you the distance? That’s the question,” Camille replies pointedly.

“Bitch,” Laci breathes into my ear. “Her, not you.”

* * *

Dessert arrives in a flourish of waiters and plates and decaf. Laci and I share a chocolate chocolate raspberry torte decorated with chocolate Grenache butterfly wings that remind me of freshly shaven labia. Some much fucking chocolate. I want to eat it off of Laci’s breasts. I want to melt it on her belly and drink it as it drips from between her legs.

Camille and Wallace are sharing an old standby, the Crème Brule. Camille feeds it to him as if he were a baby. His face has grown heavier, his voice more gravely over the course of the evening. “The cream," he mumbles between bites. “I love the cream, love it, love it, love it.”

“There, there,” Camille pats his back, rubs his shoulder. “Of course you do, of course you do.”

Laci grips my forearm. “We’re off to the Ladies,” she announces, pulling me after her.

“Sluts,” Camille calls after us. “You’re both sluts.”

It’s late and we’ve overstayed our welcome, even for food critics. The restaurant, including the Ladies, is deserted. Laci kicks open a stall, towing me along. Once inside, she kisses me, gives me a swirl of tongue, before pushing me against one wall and flattening herself against the opposite.

“Show me your breasts,” she demands.

And, of course, there’s no denying her now. I fumble with the buttons of my blouse, the front snap on my bra. My tits spill into my hands, white and firm, but no larger than passion fruits. “Milk them,” she orders me.

How did she know I’d do anything she asks? I squeeze and pull, gently at first, then more aggressively, watching her watch me. Her mouth is a perfect “O,” her eyes glassy. I’m dizzy, floating, suspended like an egg about to be poached.

“Feed them to me,” she breathes into my ear.

I cup a breast in each hand and offer them up, kneading as if I’m making bread. She graces first one nipple, then the other with her mouth. Sharp teeth nibble and nip. “Suck me ‘til I bleed,” I gasp. My ass thumps the toilet wall like a pulsating blender.

She steps away, face flushed. “Show it to me. I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

I lift my skirt, push pantyhose and panties down, step out of one leg. Below the stripe of curly brown hair, I open myself. I’m ripe and red as a blood orange, oozing juice.

“Fuck,” she says. “Turn around.”

I face the wall, panting like a bitch.

”Spread your cheeks. Show me everything.”

I’m beyond any semblance of modesty. This woman owns me. I thrust out my ass, rotating it, beckoning her. I spread myself for her like a cheap whore. She’s down on me that fast, her nose in my butt crack, her tongue in my cunt. While she laps at my opening, I finger my clit.

I feel it building, bubbling like a pot about to boil. “Oh shit,” I’m almost there already, sooner than I want to be.

It’s her clue to withdraw. She leans against the far wall again and wriggles out of slacks and a thong. She takes my hand and guides it between her legs. I love it that she’s natural, bristling with fur. The residue of my own syrup shimmers on her cheeks as my fingers find her groove. She’s so wet, it’s like dipping into a finger bowl.

Inside, her pelvic muscles tug and squeeze at my tentative digit. She pulls away and lifts my nectar-coated fingers to my mouth. “Taste me,” she says.

She’s salty and sweet at the same time, like Junior Mints and popcorn at a movie, and I want more. I drop to my knees, burying my face in the fur, kissing thighs and lips, running a tongue inside her crease. A strong hand on the back of head pulls me closer.

I penetrate her with two fingers, while the flat of my tongue circles her clit. This girl knows what her lover needs. This girl knows how to get her off. She’s rides my fingers, grinds against my face, whimpers out her fuck noises. I flick her fast and light with the tip of my tongue until a sudden sharp intake of air tells me that I’ve got her. Her come starts with a Yes, yes, yes, continues with a long spasm of her belly, and ends with the walls of her cunt rhythmically clinching my fingers.

When she’s seen it home, I nuzzle my way up to her throat. She holds me, telling me how beautiful I am, what a wonderful lover I am. I sink into her arms, those large, firm breasts. She pushes a thigh between my legs and I begin to hump while her hands clinch my ass. I’m beyond lust, in the fuck-drunk zone where the only way out is to come and come and come.

“Oh god, oh god.”

She’s kissing me and I’m grinding against her. Our nipples duel like swords. Our bodies undulate like batter in a blender. And, then I’m there and there and there, my face in her shoulder, my pussy slick and swollen and twitchy against her greasy thigh. When it’s over and she’s wrung every drop of pleasure from my body, she kisses me hard enough to bruise my lips. “This is just the beginning,” she whispers.

“I want to crawl inside you.”

“I’ll tell you when.”

* * *

Camille and Wallace have departed by the time we return. The busboys have cleared the table and the head waiter explains that Wallace has paid the tab, courtesy of one of the several periodicals for which he writes.

“Wallace always picks up the tab,” Laci says. She pulls a fifty from her wallet. “Our compliments to the chef.”

We hold hands on our way to the door. “I can’t wait to make you breakfast,” I tell her. Breakfast is something I can do. I’ve had plenty of practice on myself.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Eggs benedict, Bananas Foster, French toast. Anything you like.”

“An omelet with Gruyere cheese and chives works for me.”

“Strong hot coffee.”

“Definitely, and maybe a Danish,” she says.

“Maybe bagels and lox,” I counter.

“With capers, mascarpone, and diced red onion.”

“Definitely.”

Laci smiles and squeezes my hand. She flags a cab by twirling her panties in the air. We both laugh, giddy with the meal, the wine, the sex. I think this woman is going to like me—at least as long as the food lasts.

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