Decadent Erotica
Licorice Laces & Créme Brülée a sex story by Poppet
What he has, is passion. He embodies the word to exquisite perfection. Silently, I watch him massage the oil into skin until it glistens. My eyes are drawn to his manicured nails; flat, trim, clean, glinting with oil.
A deft thumb holds, while fingertips knead in firm circles. Allowing my captivated gaze to trace pumping veins standing to attention in stark relief. His masculinity is exposed in the subtlest of ways. He glances up, unveiling a quick smile of pleasure before focusing his seductive eyes back on the skin beneath his hands.
Observing him is making me decidedly uneasy. Fidgeting, I twist to release the pressure of my weight, on what is now, unbearable longing.
"Everything you do must fill you with sensation. Without sensation, there is no point."
I nod attentively.
He draws my hands closer to his, smothered in fragrant oil, wrapping my fingers around the white pillar.
"Sprinkle it lightly. Grind it with a gentle caress. This is the art of tender creation. Without tenderness, what is created, cannot be tender for any recipient with an eager mouth and curious taste buds."
I can't concentrate. These words are poetic ignition of desire inside me. I watch his full lips moving while he focuses a glance on my visage, the corners of his mouth slip up slowly as if fascinated by my captivation.
"Grinding can be as delicate or flirtatious as a soft kiss. Approach is everything..."
As those words leave his mouth, I finally grab my courage with both hands.
"I'd love to cook with you." I wait for his gentle eyes to engage mine again, before adding, "At home."
Chef Mario stops oiling the duck breast beneath his fingers.
"And what would we cook?"
Well, first you could baste me with lotion and I'll marinade you in heat. I'll whip up a passionate emulsion, clot some cream, and give you the most succulent breast you've ever tasted...
"I think it should be spontaneous. Let the creativity flow." I answer.
***
I've been Mario's producer for seventeen months. Filming his cookery show each week, take after take, slowly becoming more enamored with him with each passing course. He makes food unequivocally erotic. His baritone is smooth, like melted chocolate drizzling slowly over willing tongues, eager for more Mario; in his tight black t-shirts that show off a body which could belong to an Olympic diver.
When he accepted my proposal, his expression revealed indulgent curiosity. Mediterranean eyes turned to seductive velvet brown, softening their intensity. He hinted at interest when he smiled, staring at the button straining between my breasts.
"Yes, marinating breasts, coating calamari, whipping custard, in your kitchen... I think I find that image enticing."
Well, fuck me slowly!
I could hardly stand from my director's chair when he lilted his accent in answer. What an answer. I am wanton, and absolutely panicked. What if I misread his innuendo? What if I'm about to make a total ass of myself and ruin my career? I have ten minutes before he's due to arrive, and I’m flustered, nervous, horny, separately, cannot sum up how I'm feeling. I am hornflustinerve.
Pausing in front of the mirror, I double check the licorice, lacing up my corset. I've taken a risk. I'm wearing a simple, white, off-the-shoulder linen blouse, covered with a black velvet corset; a bit like a German barmaid but with a gothic cuisine twist. Black velvet jeans match the top. I’ve substituted the laces up the sides with strawberry licorice. It's partly my sense of humor, and partly a hint. I'd love him to eat my clothes off of me. An appetizer to devouring me.
Downing the rest of my wine, I check the scene. It feels like preparing his set. Candles flicker submissively in their corners, the knives are sharpened to perfection, laid out for him on the kitchen counter, like a coroner ready to dissect a murder victim. I’ve laid out a smorgasbord of vegetables and meats. My finest pots and pans stand ready to be manipulated and filled with his inspiration. Easy music filters below the breeze coming in the sliding door, like a haze over a midnight lake. It’s subtle, just enough to fog the edges off of awkwardness.
Champagne is chilling along with wines and lagers, as I have no idea what his preference is. I prefer my wine slightly chilled, with a hint of allspice. It keeps the breath fresh, and I love the spiciness of it. Sometimes I blend red wine and blueberry juice together with cloves and allspice, with a dash of cinnamon; it's delectable. I've made a batch, just in case, held bound in a glass jug in the refrigerator. Pouring myself a liberal goblet of it, I take another swig as I meander back to the mirror to check my appearance next to the door. I look too pale, pinching my cheeks before smoothing my brunette geisha bob; I smile at the crushed mulberry shading my lips.
Distracted by the bell, I pout out my breasts with a deep inhalation, and open the door.
"Mario, are you always this punctual?"
"Ciao Jess. I never keep a lady waiting, you should know that."
His smile is so charming, that I wonder if the flimsy lace I'm wearing under my jeans is enough to hold me together. Effortlessly he takes a step toward me, lifting my hand to brush his warm lips over the back of it. I've seen him with other good friends, he kisses them on both cheeks, holding their arms as he draws them in with no escape. I wonder when I'll be that girl.
"Come in..."
He wanders past me, smelling so darn yummy that my hormones are hanging upside down from the ceiling like voyeuristic bats. He notices I'm not wearing shoes, examining my black nail polish with interest.
"No shoes. I like a woman who can relax and let herself go, feeling the earth with her bare feet."
Averting my eyes with an angel-battling-demon effort, I stop staring at his perfect shape in black jeans, and casually sip some of my potion before answering.
"Letting go is the only way to enjoy life."
He walks into the open plan kitchen, surveys the ingredients, the sofa, the candles, then opens the sliding door. Placing a basket and a bottle down on the counter, he behaves as if he lives here, moving to the fridge and examining the contents. He lifts the jug and sniffs my wine potion. Using the goblet I left out on the black counter for him, he helps himself to some. He closes his eyes as he sips, then exhales slowly.
His head tilts back, and I note his Adam's apple which rests a foot above my head, defined by a strong neck, and vague stubble. His black shirt, open at the neck, frames the hollow in his throat perfectly, as he swallows.
"You are good. No wonder you produce the show."
"Thank you for the compliment." Moving to the island in the centre of the kitchen, where the knives lay in wait, I let my eyes caress him, "What did you have in mind for tonight?"
He smiles slowly as if hiding a wicked secret. One hand opens the basket and he extracts a jug of creamy liquid.
"Jess, food is seduction. It is life. Without it we die. But a true chef knows how to make a meal memorable."
"Yes?"
"Are you wearing licorice?"
I am thirty years old, and yet his unwavering gaze on my corset has my cheeks staining with heat.
"Yes."
"Will you indulge me? Can you let yourself trust me, in this kitchen tonight? To serve, as I see fit?"
There is no way I can say no. There's a static charge sparking between us, desire has me gripped with such tight anticipation that I can hardly breathe.
"I'm prepared to trust you, yes. Make yourself completely at home."
He kicks off his shoes, bare feet like mine now, and turns to place what I think is tiramisu into the fridge. I settle myself on a stool in front of the island as he picks up a cleaver and tests it on a piece of beef.
Ignoring me as creativity takes his focus, I watch him sautéing onions, beef cubes, peppers and porcini mushrooms, together in sesame oil, before drizzling some of the red wine into the pan. Absently he unbuttons his shirt with one hand and tosses it onto the basket as he stirs continuously with his free hand. My eyes are glued to his muscular back dancing with each stir, as potent aromas tumble over each other to seduce my senses.
He dribbles cream into the pan, a snap of his fingers breaks my admiration, and I move to hand him a bowl. He gifts me with an affectionate smile as he scoops the contents of the pan into the bowl.
A strong hand grips my wrist. Staring up into his intoxicating eyes, I wait to see what he intends to do now.
"Close your eyes, bella."
He is half Italian, and after working together this long, I am accustomed to his terms of endearment. Inhaling, I close my eyes.
I can feel his breath on my neck as he leans in close to me. His spicy aftershave wraps itself around me. Something soft drops over my eyes, then he lowers me to sit on the kitchen floor.
"What is food, bella?"
"Life, sustenance..."
"It is the language of love. Mama taught me young, that if you love someone, you cook for them, you feed them, and you let your food do the talking, the caressing, the loving."
Just make me your victim, I don't care what you feed me, just keep talking and doing this.
"Open your mouth for me."
Obediently, I part my lips, waiting, with the blindfold over my eyes; I feel a thrill of kinky apprehension. He slowly inserts a fork into my mouth. I close my lips around it, feeling the silky heat of the sauce permeating my tongue with incredible flavor.
Couple in Brown by Carter Vaughn
He slides the fork slowly in and out of my mouth, his breath still so close that it's tickling the hair under my ear. Deeply he whispers, "Your mouth accepts my gift. What am I telling you, Jess?"
He pushes the fork back in, then with excruciating slowness he withdraws it. Pushing the food to the side of my mouth, I whisper back, my desire so intense with the silent suggestion of the sliding fork, "You want to do wicked and delicious things to me that involve sliding?"
"I want to do wicked things that involve your lovely lips."
I can barely swallow the delectable morsel in my mouth, after that statement.
"You are the chef, I will marinade whatever you give me to soak with flavor. And I am willing to taste whatever you decide needs sampling."
His hot mouth closes over mine, silencing me. Hmmm, the taste of his tongue as it slides over mine, he tastes like blueberries and wine. The pressure from feeling him this close makes me feel faint. I lean closer and closer, down to the floor, with his weight on me. A hand reaches under my cleavage.
"What are you doing?"
"Tying you up with your own licorice."
That undoes me. Heat infuses my knickers as warm hands ensnare my wrists; I feel the cords capturing them together.
"Just feel, bocca perfetta."
"Hmm?"
"Perfect mouth."
He traces something warm and moist over my lips. Tentatively I allow the tip of my tongue to inspect it. It's food, and happily I let him feed me. He kisses me, we chew together, we eat and breathe, swallow and explore together.
A warm hand trails down my throat, traversing over a hard nipple on its way to tug my blouse up. It holds me down and removes the kitchen cloth from my eyes; curious, I watch him as he lifts the jug full of white cream off the counter and pours some of it into my navel.
A deep salacious chuckle follows, as he sprinkles sugar over the potion in my midsection. The blowtorch scares me, fear grabs me, and I try to sit up, to pull away, but he's tied my hands to the maple island, and with his entire weight resting on my hips, I am stuck.
Flinching I close my eyes as the searing heat flickers over the dessert on my body. The coolness of the cream quickly heats up as he centers the flame in the iris of it.
"What is that?"
"Créme Brulée. I am going to suck the cream out of your body, and you will suck the cream out of mine."
Oh, sweet lord!
The heat of an errant blowtorch lick is quickly displaced with the flicking of his tongue over the taut skin of my stomach. Covering my navel completely he sucks, dipping his tongue in sharp plunges, the ambiguity utterly blatant.
"Mario…" My voice cracks with the sensation of his tongue circling inside my navel, leaving me incapacitated to speak.
A naughty smile framed with vanilla greets my lusty eyes. He slowly licks it clean with that tempting tongue,
"You don’t seem to mind?"
"I would say you have an unfair advantage here."
"You could eat your way out of those restraints."
His amusement is evident. Sultry eyes seduce me inside and out, his naked torso teases me, and I squirm when I feel saturation of longing between my thighs.
"Italians love cannelloni, it's meaty and rich, and thick, and long, and when you put it into your mouth, it oozes warm béchamel sauce."
"If you're not careful, Mario, I'm going to take advantage of you once I've gnawed through this licorice."
He laughs and then lowers himself to suck the strawberry string of licorice holding my jeans together, into his mouth. The left side of my jeans goes slack and he pushes my linen blouse away, until he's staring at my nipple. He breathes over it and teases it to erect attention.
"Bellissima."
"Do you do this to all of your dining partners?"
"Jessica, I have admired you silently for years. It is taking all of my manners to be as patient as I am being.”
He pours créme brulée onto one and sucks it slowly into his mouth.
"Oh !"
"I like to start with dessert..."
***
He turned me, bent me forward like a ballet dancer executing the Leaning Tower of Pisa in Margot Fonteyn style. Naked, creamy skin exposed along with my vulnerable nape and spine. Mario painted me as if he were Botticelli paining the Birth of Venus.
Drizzling chili infused olive oil down my back before mopping it up with a brush of chives and red curly lettuce. First feeding me, then himself. He laces my lips and skin with fiery kisses, the heat from the chili leaving a stain of decadent sensation. Then feeding me, then himself. Offering me the crushed olive paste, I decide to stop flirting with skin. I scoop my finger into it and carefully push it into his mouth. His tongue wraps around the digit as if devouring me, his lips closing softly around it. The sensation hooks me deep below my navel and tugs at my insides.
Catching my wrist he pulls me into his arms, holding me tight he invades my mouth with a salty olive kiss. I regard the heated velvet brown of his eyes garnished with long thick lashes. So beautiful this man. His warm chest presses into my breasts as his muscles flex, imprisoning me, feverish lust shuts down my mind. Slipping up to sit on him, I hold him in a tight grip between my thighs, skin on skin, lips to lips. Running fingers into his thick straight hair, I succumb to the exploration of texture.
In a twist of vertigo, I am shoulders down on the cold tiles, he's tugging my jeans off, and I cannot inhale without choking on my own craving. I don't know when he did it, but the heat connecting with my inner thigh shocks my eyes wide open, flexing every lean muscle in my body to sit bolt upright, he forces me back down. Fuck he's strong. He drizzles dark, hot syrup from a Turkish coffee pot up my thigh, over the black lace, right up to the hollow in my throat, leaving a trail of stinging heat.
"That fucking hurts!"
"You will have your turn, bella."
He leans back and flips open the freezer extracting an ice tray. That's not mine. What is that? My psychic Italian strega chef extracts one cube out of the tray by the protruding toothpick, trailing it over the burn, answering me at the same time, "Chocolate sorbet. Mio dolce amico."
His warm tongue traces the trail of sorbet, his teeth grazing gently, eating off me. I’m a puddle of wanton willingness.
I relish my turn. The minute he hands me the tray and the Turkish coffee pot, I sit on him, forcing him to lie back, going straight for the Adam's apple.
"What is this? Mario it's delicious!"
The low rumble of his laughter against my thighs, against my sex, where I sit on him, causes convulsions of sensitive pleasure that shoot straight up my spine and into my nipples.
"Dark chocolate, espresso, crema, cannella, and love."
And love. Don't forget the love.
"Cannella? What's that?"
"Hmmm..." I watch him roll his lips in deep concentration, taking the opportunity to lick the potion from his skin, when he speaks again the Adam's apple sends vibrations shooting into my tongue with the low rumble of his timbre.
"Cinnamon."
I can't restrain myself. I am so fucking horny now that I must have him. Still holding him down with my weight, I turn to face his feet, I unlatch his jeans as fast as I can. My hands are shaking as I yank furiously, half blind with passion, I cannot eat another morsel if it isn't him! My breath is so shallow that I fear I may pass out. Unleashing his cannelloni into the palm of my hand, I grab the sorbet, run it over the tip, and sink my hot mouth straight over it. The shocked grunt from behind me pleases me.
Fumbling without looking, I grab the cooking scissors off the marble top and cut the lace from my hip, not looking at him, I follow my lips with my hips. I wrap my lower lips around him in a long slow kiss. The heat in the kitchen quadruples instantaneously.
Ashamed of myself after ravaging the poor man, who didn't seem to mind one bit, I finally meet his eyes.
"Do not be shy Bella, passion is good for the soul. My little passionfruit."
Giggling uncontrollably, I lay down on cold tiles to snuggle against him, resting my cheek on errant chest hair. I'm a fruit. I could be worse things.
***
It's true what they say about passionate Italians. His combustible touch smothered me in endless teasing caresses. We alternated unhinged insane fucking with moments of languid tenderness when he'd simply nibble my neck, taste my skin as if I were a new delicacy just flown in from Calabria. He mushroomed inside me like deep forest portobello funghi. Funghi al formaggio will never have the same meaning for me ever again.
He adored me, worshipped me with idle eyes and curious hands, before assailing me with the next flurry of volatile penetration and gymnastics.
But he saved the best for last. Feeding me tiramisu with morning coffee, snuggled together under a quilt, naked, watching the sunrise. A virgin day that began with long pink rays, and serenading birds, and I felt myself losing control of my heavy eyelids.
He tenderly invaded my swollen lips in a kiss laced with ownership, he carried me to bed. Falling asleep wrapped in his strong embrace, our fingers entwined, and the hairs on his legs teasing my naked skin where our legs touched. I woke once, when his stubble grazed my nape and his breath sent sensation down my spine straight to my core.
I bought a bunch of flavored condoms. We used the chocolate, cinnamon and coffee ones before indulging in the heated scent of vanilla, while firm fingers gripped my hips, changing our momentum for his perfect emulsion inside me. Each one now a treasured memory of sensory overload. I was so overheated my self-destruct emergency alarm went off multiple times, again and again, and again, until I was sure I matched the core temperature of the sun.
***
Waking still tired, I relax back, resting my spine against his skin, my head on his collar bone.
"Jess, you are so beautiful. Thank you for inviting me to dinner."
"You did all the cooking."
"You did the marinating."
"Touché."
Lifting me, he moves me to lay under him. Tracing my fingertips through soft hair above his neck, I pull his mouth closer to mine.
"I hope this doesn't screw up our working relationship."
He stares at me with melting chocolate irises, "I will screw up with you every day of the week, if you let me. But work, is work. This is play."
Before I can retort, his mouth smothers mine, muscles line my arm affectionately, and a curious hand tenderly slips between my legs. There is something so primal and savage about having a man inside you in two places at once. Shuddering, I experience muscles clamping over his fingers while his hot mouth sucks my lip into his. A lazy tongue traces inside my lower lip. Ambidextrous, his other hand circles my nipple.
"Oh my god. Mario!"
***
It's been three months, and I wake up every morning to frothy cappuccino. Sometimes it's a Mario cappuccino, frothing hotly inside me, followed by fragrant espresso, sipped slowly, and then he upturns his cup over my nipple, to read the grains of the day's future in the bottom of the cup, after rotating it three times and forcing my sleepy nipple into stiff morning alertness.
He makes me laugh, and he's changed my views on food forever. The way he smudges salad over skin, and we suck food off each other, from avocado drizzled in olive oil and chili paste, to whipped cream and cocoa powder; he is my chef.
I produce his show every week. Our language is food, and food is love. We can have an entire conversation at work, which to an outsider, seems completely food related. Yet I know, that he is my béchamel sauce. I am his créme brulée. He is my cannelloni, I am his pannecotta. I am his passionfruit, he is my chorizo. He is my blow torch, I am his sugar.
Food has become my passion, and I am bound together with licorice strands, to a chef with an iron stamina. I no longer envy the girls who get a kiss on each cheek. I am the girl he holds tight at night, kissing me not only on my mouth, but on every part of my body he can get to. Italian kisses, the dolce dessert, shaped like nipples to be sucked, my life has become a dessert of endless, varied, Italian kisses.
Buon appetito, means so much more to me now. He has an appetito, and he's ignited mine.
Originally published January 2011