Mind Caviar Fiction

Astrid L.  has published her delicious stories and recipes in Mind Caviar on several occasions. The following is another food-sex story we hope you'll find delightful. Astrid L. is currently working on an erotic cookbook, Sensually Simmering with short stories to complement each recipe. If you'd like to read more of her poetry or fiction, she is also currently published in Ophelia's Muse

E-mail Astrid L. Visit Astrid L.'s Web site AstridLís Pages.

silver clit awards

The following story was nominated for a March 2002 Silver Clitorides Award, which supports superior erotica writing. Thank you for your votes of support!

Associations: A Valentine's Day Tale

I had come home from work early. It was Saint Valentine's Day and my lover had promised me a surprise. We were to have dinner at his place. He loved to cook, he had said, but only on special occasions. We both loved to eat. I had bought him a cookbook, Cookbook for Lovers. I was buzzing with excitement as I took the lift up to my sixth-floor apartment off the Boulevard Saint Michel.

I had met Alain in a small bistro when I first arrived in Paris. The restaurant was packed, but the patron seated me at the last free place at a table for two opposite a quiet-looking man with a head of thick dark blonde hair. There was something so unassuming about him that I didn't feel at all nervous. That only came later.

I ordered steak frites and green salad, the usual bistro fare, and a glass of Côte du Rhone. He had ordered the same, he said, but with an entrée of six oysters.

"Do you like oysters?" he said as the waiter placed a small plate with six open shells before him.

"I don't know," I said.

"Would you like to taste one?"

I shook my head and he shrugged.

"They must be very fresh," he said as he squeezed a few drops from a quarter lemon onto one of the plump pieces of flesh in its mother of pearl shell. The flesh tremoured slightly as the juice touched it. Then he lifted the shell and slid the oyster into his mouth. Mesmerised by the look on his face, a moment of pure delight, I couldn't help imagining his tongue playing with this fruit of the sea before letting it slide down his throat. 

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to try one?"

I shook my head. My cheeks felt hot and it was with a sense of relief that I placed my napkin on my lap when the waiter arrived with my steak.

After three weeks in Paris, I had grown more than accustomed to the rare tender meat that released a gentle trail of juice when my knife cut the flesh. I loved it. The act of eating calmed me and our conversation settled comfortably into a getting to know you.

We met again in the bistro. One evening we left together and he took me to his flat on the Boulevard Saint Germain. It was a simple studio, a one-room flat, with a large mattress-like divan on the honey parquet. A cluster of barley-coloured broad candles squatted in a corner by the window through which the lights of the city twinkled. Soft classical music was playing. His seduction of me was gentle and knowing, his caresses building a haven of trust, and so I fell in love with Alain.

We would meet in the bistro as often as possible, sometimes three, even four, times a week, and here and there he would ask me again to try one of his oysters.

"They are an aphrodisiac," he said.

"So they say." I was not convinced.

"It all depends on associations," he said with a wicked smile, "and how they are made."

Now it was three weeks later and I wanted to ready myself for our first special occasion. I put the key in the lock and almost stepped on a large brown envelope in front of my door. Once inside, I opened it. A gift-wrapped red paper package with hearts was inside. Smiling, I ripped it open to discover items of lingerie and a note from Alain. "Please wear these. Till 7 o'clock. I love you."

My heart raced as I gingerly fingered the brassiere in dark teal blue with its trim of black lace, the matching panties, suspender belt and the sheer black stockings.

I had an hour to get ready before walking over to Alain's place, so I ran a bath. A bath would relax me, I thought. And it did in a way, as I watched my breasts float like islands in the warm and fragrant water. Jasmine. Musk. But when my fingers strayed to play between my thighs, to slip between my nether lips and tease down inside my cunt and tug and pull and tease my clit, so pleased and ready to harden, like my nipples, at the slightest ministration, I had to stop, or I would be late. And I did so want to keep my appetite, although I knew that rather than be satiated, I would only crave for more. No. I had to get ready. 

I dried myself and decided against perfume. The fragrance of the bath was enough, and there was a certain natural fragrance I wanted to maintain. I took the underwear Alain had sent. I slipped the brassiere on and gazed at myself in the mirror. It cupped my breasts perfectly and the sheer fabric did little to hide the sudden tautness of my nipples. I fastened the belt about my waist and ran one of the sheer stockings over my hand; I slipped in my toe and peeled the fine denier slowly up to my thigh. Then I peeled on the other stocking. I gazed at myself in the mirror. Is this what he wants, I wondered. As I saw the brush of my russet pubic hair I realised that I had forgotten to put on the panties. I smiled. Alain was not to dictate to me. I shall not wear them, I decided.

As I dressed, a silken black blouse and a velvet skirt that was half wrap-around to expose one leg when I walked, I began to feel more and more aroused. I wondered if it had to do with being "sans" panties for the first time in my life, or whether it was due to Alain's Valentine's gift. Probably both, I admitted to myself. Did I dare? Yes. I wanted to do this.

When I arrived at Alain's place, I found the door ajar and so I pushed it open. Beethoven's 6th was quietly playing and there was a familiar scent of vanilla and musk. Through the glow of a dozen large candles in the corner I saw large scarlet cushions scattered around the divan. A table for two was set in the other corner of the room. I closed the door and tiptoed to the table and then placed my cookbook gift on the heavy smoked glass. As I turned Alain stood before me. He was resplendent in a long midnight blue caftan. He held out his hand and drew me into his arms. Without a word, he kissed me. I had never felt so wholly ruled by my senses.

Then he spoke in a soft warm voice. "Ma Chérie, I want to make this a special evening for you, but you must trust me."

I raised one eyebrow, longing for more of his kisses.

"It has to do with associations," he said. "Are you game?"

My pulse was racing again as I felt a tiny bit moist between my legs and remembered the panties. 

But Alain was already opening my blouse and pushing the front pieces away.

"Ah," he said. "A perfect fit." I felt my nipples harden as he traced a finger over the fabric of the brassiere. Then his lips kissed one and then the other veiled breast. "We shall not take it off yet," he said. "I want to see if the rest fits just as well."

I didn't say a word and just stood there and waited like a nervous schoolgirl who had forgotten to do her homework. With one finger he eased the fold of my skirt aside to reveal the tops of my stockings. Then his hands slipped under my skirt and caressed their way up my thighs to the back, and as he touched the curve of my bottom I heard him give a tiny gasp before continuing as if there had been no surprise. His lips came to my ear. 

"I was wondering if you would wear the panties," he whispered.

Before I could answer he pulled at the sash which fastened the skirt and the velvet garment slid to the floor.

"Turn around, mon amour," he said and gently turned me towards a mirror against the wall. He was standing behind me and I watched through the glowlight, as if hypnotised, as he slipped my blouse from my shoulders. Then he undid my brassiere and it, too, fell to the floor. My breasts peaked firm as my heart pounded. I didn't dare move, caught in some sublime trance. 

Alain's hands circled my midriff and gently explored beneath the belt. I was tingling. Then his fingers dipped into my russet hairs and I had to close my eyes. I was so wet and I knew that he would soon feel the moisture about to trickle down the inside of my thighs. He did, and I opened my eyes. 

With one finger, as if scooping a delectable topping, he grazed the soft pulsing flesh, now swollen under his ministrations, and brought it to his nostrils as if to breathe in the odour of a rare and precious wine.

"I can smell that you are game," he said as he led me to the divan and gently laid me down on my back. "There is no need for you to do anything, my love. Tonight is your night," he whispered and peeled off my stockings and unfastened the last garment. All the while he still wore his caftan, a tell-tale sheen now shining through below his waistline. I closed my eyes. The music was still playing in the background, but there was a new urgency to the allegro as he began stroking my breasts and suckling my nipples, then caressing my hips and the insides of my thighs, avoiding the source of my juices in a way that tantalised until it drew forth a sudden clutch from within me.

Then he took my hand and placed it on the inside top of my right thigh.

"Can you wait for me a moment like that?"

I sighed and closed my eyes, enveloped in a heaven of senses, but left longing for more. It seemed as if my body had taken on a life of its own in a new world of sensations. My fingers began to explore the swollen lips between my legs, dipping deeper into what I thought must be a nectar, so thick it felt. The nub of my clit was hard and throbbing and my fingers would not stop moving and then suddenly Alain's soft voice eased through my moans. 

"Hush now my darling, but keep your eyes closed."

I was torn between action and anticipation. My heart was now thumping almost louder than Beethoven. 

"Breathe deeply, slowly," Alain said and I did, and just as I was calming down his fingers eased their way into my pussy, displacing mine. Cool, they stroked the flesh of my swollen nub and then - the tremour of a new sensation - liquid, soft, a gentle cold - gave way to a myriad of tiny clutches. My fingers, wet still, tugged at my nipples, twisting, tugging, until I felt a warmth, a deep sucking, a soft caressing, a probing, all at the same time.

Heat and cool fused and I thought my core must explode, carrying me beyond all living memory and then subsiding to feel a gentle nibbling of my throbbing clit.

Alain stroked my belly and drew his head up. As his warm moist lips kissed mine I felt as if I must drown in the love of him and the appealing new taste. 

"Is that me?" I whispered.

He gently nuzzled my neck. "You," he said, "and oyster. Would you like to try one now?" He smiled at me and his finger swirled inside me, squeezing, pushing a plump softness until my cunt felt it was drowning in a liquid thickness. My voice was hoarse as I whispered "Oyster?"

"My usual appetizer," he said. "But on this special occasion, I'd like to attend some more to a marinade." He rolled the "r" with a low growl. 

It was then I saw the silver plate. Six open shells. Two empty. Alain slipped a second finger into what had now become a receptacle of precious juices. I couldn't help stretching my legs wider apart.

"Wider," he said and pushed my fingers into my cunt. "Keep twirling, swirling." He took a shell and held it beneath my nose. I closed my eyes. The rough shell scraped my swollen labial lips. My fingers worked the juices. "Please," I moaned. 

"So you would like to try?" he said as the fleshy mollusc slipped inside me. I gasped. My fingers were now toiling furiously. "You must beat more than that, mon amour. Come, I shall help you."

There was no holding back. "Let me taste," I groaned. "Let me, let me." 

"Just the last two, cherie. One stays there to warm a little. The other is for you." And he slipped two more oysters into my overflowing pussy. The last one he swirled about in the marinade and then scooped it to my lips. I put my head back, my mouth was open. "Let me," I groaned. 

At last he slipped the oyster into my mouth. I caught it with my tongue, probed, until the thick liquid burst the fragile membrane and filled my mouth; slowly I swallowed the spent mollusc, heady almost as it slid down my throat. My breathing slowed and then a sudden final clutch spread a glow, a relaxation, a final coming as Alain hungrily slurped the remains of his appetizer from its more than satisfied receptacle.

He moved his head, his swollen satiated mouth, over my belly, my midriff to reach my breasts and suckle gently, a trail of cunt and oyster nectar gleaming on my skin. He held me close in his arms for a time which seemed without measure, then got up and handed me an emerald silk caftan that must have been tucked behind one of the cushions. 

"Please wear this," he said. "It goes so beautifully with your hair."

The silk rustled and caressed my body as I slipped on the caftan. I was speechless with wonder and also with hunger.

"Shall we eat now?" Alain said and held out his hand to lead me to the table. I leaned into him and held him close. 

"I have a side dish of asparagus," he said softly, "and then some tender, succulent beef." 

Alain knew how I loved asparagus, and beef, and I knew that my cookbook gift was filled with recipes for many special occasions. And my new love of oysters, I knew, I would always associate with Alain. 

Copyright © 2001-2002 Astrid L. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.

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