Rich Denis wasted far too long in business until, serendipitously, he saw an ad for a writing class. The learning curve has been steep, but addictive. For the moment he lives in Manhattan with his long- suffering partner and attempts to rewrite a book for agents who nibble but fail to bite. Occasionally he is distracted by ideas for erotic short stories. A previous story, "The 6 train", was published by Mind Caviar in 2000.
You Are My Feast
It is summer. We've rented a cottage in the country for two months. The heat makes it impossible to sleep, and in the middle of the night I creep from our bed and go down to the kitchen. The stone floor is cool under my feet. The faucet drips into an empty sink. The old oak table has been scrubbed clean, and I lie on the bare wood, on my back and close my eyes. I'm naked. The table is cool. The faint, enticing aromas of the food you've been cooking lurk around me as I think of our day.
We walked down to the village, to the market. You selected smooth nectarines, lush, pink peaches, plump, green plums, carefully rolling them between your fingers, squeezing, testing. We walked home swinging the bag between us, content, happy, relaxed. I watched you spread the fruit across this table, slicing, peeling and chopping, the pile growing, right here, where my shoulders are now. You sampled choice slivers as you worked, juice trickling down your chin, the sticky wet trail sliding between your breasts, out of sight. I pictured it traveling across your stomach, into the dark tangle of hair down there. I imagined following its trail with my tongue.
I undid the buttons on the back of your dress. You shrugged it off, proud of your holiday tan, unashamed of your generous figure. Naked now, you took the sharp wooden skewers and carefully, slowly, impaled each succulent chunk. You looked over your shoulder at me and smiled a knowing smile.
The kebabs sizzled and spat as you lay them across the hot grill. We watched them cook. I stood behind you, touching you, exploring you, cupping your breasts and teasing your nipples, rolling them between my fingers, my cock nudging at your ass. You wriggled and laughed. The fruit softened, its covering of soft, brown sugar caramelized. You served them on an white platter. There had been cream. A small jug of thick cream.
We ate with our fingers, sitting here at this table. We ate everything, and when we were finished I began to eat you, sucking at your heavy breasts, licking my way down across your solid, round stomach, between your soft thighs. I lifted you onto the edge of the big farm sink and buried myself in you. We grinned at each other, face to face, cock to cunt, me hard, you soft and ripe. Me the skewer, you the peaches. And after a while you moved us across to this table, standing next to it, bending across it, spreading your legs wide.
Your face had been pressed here where I am lying. On each slow, delicious stroke, my cock withdrawn to the very tip, I paused. Each time you held your breath, almost fearfully, until I pushed in again and you let out a small sigh of relief. For once our roles reversed, you desperate for me instead of me for you. And when you came, you reared up off the table, bracing yourself on stiff arms, your cunt, boiling, pulsing and twitching. You screamed Godís name, I whispered yours.
Now in the quiet of the night I hear the soft slap of bare feet on stone a second after I sense that youíre here with me. I feel liquid trickling into my crotch. It moves slowly. Cream. I feel a sprinkle of sugar and then your hot breath. My cock stretches, stiffens. Your mouth closes on it. Your tongue is hard and eager. I reach between your thighs. You smell of sex. Your skin is hot.
You climb on the old table, kneeling above me, your breathing desperate and loud in the silence. I bury my face in you, doing what I know you want, licking you, swallowing your juices. Lick and swallow, lick and swallow.
You taste of summer. I bite your clit and flick it with my tongue. I ease two fingers against your ass, waiting your permission. You push back so hard I think I might feel my cock touch your throat. There is only you and me. We do this until daylight sneaks in through the windows and then we have breakfast-- coffee, and perhaps eggs.
Copyright © 2003 Rich Denis. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.
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