Culinary Seduction

“Let me ask you a question,” he began as he diced the ripe juicy tomatoes. “What is your favorite food?”

“Filet Mignon,” was my immediate response, and my mouth nearly watered at the thought of the char-grilled meat.

“But you wouldn’t want to eat Filet Mignon everyday, would you?”

“Of course not,” I replied, shredding the fresh gingerroot into the small bowl he had given me.

“And why not?” he continued, his eyes still on his tomato.

“Well, I suppose if I ate it everyday, it wouldn’t be that special. I’d get sick of it. All good things are best in moderation, don’t you think?”

“Yes I do!” he replied emphatically. “And you’ve just brought me ‘round to a very important point.”

“Which is?”

“Monogamy is sort of like food. If you eat the same thing everyday, you grow tired of it. Variety is the spice of life. It seems you agree!”

“Well,” I paused, considering my words carefully, “I thought we were talking about Filet Mignon. I didn’t realize that my response was going to be taken quite so drastically out of context.” I raised my eyebrows and waited for him to continue.

“But you understand what I’m trying to say, right? Whether you eat the same food or fuck the same partner, you can get tired of it. It becomes too familiar, too predictable, don’t you think?”

“So in other words, monogamy might be better called monotony?”

“Now you’ve got it!” he replied with an approving chuckle. “My point exactly!”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve been cheating on Claire?” I inquired, wondering if my best friend was leaning toward a topic that was more than just hypothetical.

“Maybe,” he said softly, without looking up. The tomato he’d been dicing was sliced to the core. He tossed it aside and set to work on a bunch of cilantro. “Or maybe I’m just interested in seeing what else is on the menu. Hand me that bottle of lime juice, would you?” he added casually.

“Wow, Scott, I’m not sure what to say. It’s not like Claire is the soup du jour. You’re married to her. The selection doesn’t change. You’ve made your choice. It’s split pea everyday!” I didn’t like the judgmental quality of my voice, but his comment had taken me by surprise and I wasn’t sure exactly how to respond. Did he want me to be supportive? Logical? Reassuring?

“So Claire is sort of like split pea soup, hey?” he chuckled, trying to lighten the mood slightly.

“Claire actually is like Filet Mignon, Scott. She’s delicious. She’s a masterpiece. That’s why you married her. And she should taste every bit as good tomorrow as she does today.”

“I know you’re right,” he agreed, stirring the Thai sauce he’d made and pouring it over the chicken. “But what if, just once, I want to eat something different. What if for one night, I could savor the taste of another meat in my mouth?”

I felt an unexpected flutter in my chest. Scott was the only person I knew that could make even the most innocuous reference sound sensual and provocative, and for the first time in our three year friendship, I began to wonder if he might actually have an underlying desire for me.

“What if you could? Do you think that you would actually do it?” I wondered aloud.

“Honestly?” he asked, looking directly into my inquisitive eyes for the first time. “Yes, I believe that I would like to sample something new. King Crab legs maybe,” he grinned slyly, slapping a damp towel against my thigh. “Or maybe a nice chicken breast,” he laughed, playfully reaching out toward me in a feigned attempt to grope my chest.

I laughed, but wasn’t sure if my giggles were in response to his offbeat humor or were borne of the nervous butterflies that were now flitting about inside of me. Did he mean to seduce me? Did my friend, the sous chef, now see me as a piece of raw meat, one that he might like to mold and stuff and bake in a smoldering oven of intense passion? The idea seemed to have merit.

“How about a glass of wine?” He offered, pouring two goblets of Merlot before I’d even responded. I was certain that this was part of his strategy. He’d ply me with liquor, just enough to lower my inhibitions and then forge ahead with his culinary seduction.

I took in a rather large swig, steeling myself for the possibility of venturing forward. The fact was, that in that moment, I wanted Scott as much as he seemed to want me. We had been friends for a long time. He was handsome, sexy, talented and funny. He was the only man that I’d ever met that knew his way around the kitchen and he cooked for me often when his wife was away on business. Before this night, there had been nothing between us except a genuine friendship and a bit of harmless flirtation. Now, as I sat there at the kitchen counter, with my waning glass of Merlot, the idea of stripping down to my bare essence and letting my friend discover me in an entirely new way was beginning to drive me to distraction.

Blue Matrix: Clip 1

“Another?” he asked, tilting the bottle over my now-empty glass. I nodded, inhaling the grape infused fumes as I swished another mouthful of wine through my teeth and swallowed. The moment seemed right. With the Thai chicken simmering on the stovetop, we were able to sneak off into the den and make ourselves more comfortable. I decided to take the lead, leaving nothing to chance.

“Scott,” I boldly ventured forth, “how do you see me?”

His face twisted somewhat under a quizzical gaze.

“I mean, do you see me as a friend…or as a menu item?”

The quizzical look was replaced with an intuitive one.

“Both?” he responded with a half-question, half-certain quality to his voice.

“So, tonight, if you were inclined to sample the oysters instead of the Filet Mignon, I’d be the oysters?”

“You could be anything you wanted to be. As long as you let me taste you,” he replied. Again, the seductive lilt to his voice made my stomach lurch forward.

I set my wine glass on the end table and slid forward in my seat. Scott dropped to his knees, placing his trembling palms on my thighs. We gazed at each other just long enough to extend our mutual, unspoken permission to forge ahead.

Scott’s intrepid fingers slid beneath the hem of my skirt and found me, anxious and waiting. My hips slid to the very edge of my seat, rocking forward so that he might feel the heat emanating from me and sense my growing urgency.

“Taste me,” I whispered, granting him what he seemed to so strongly desire. I slid my skirt up and opened my thighs before him.

His hot breath against the crotch of my panties made me instantly wet. The pressure of his warm palms holding my thighs open added to the sensation and a moan of great anticipation and longing emerged from my core. My mind was rabid with thoughts of him pulling my panties aside and plunging his tongue deeply into me, wiggling it, flicking it against my clit and licking me until I was reduced to nothing more than a flood of delicious, intoxicating juices. He seemed to sense my longing and peeled the moist silk from my clinging sex before placing his scruffy goatee against my soft wetness. I squealed in delight, hyperventilating almost instantly as his lips whispered against me, sending chills coursing throughout my entire body. I was literally wracked with pleasure, and I draped my legs over his shoulders, using my quivering calves to push him harder against me. The whispery quality with which he had begun turned to a moderate vibrating hum, which sent me into spasms. My fingers laced through his hair and I pushed him against me, harder still, until the hum became a crescendo. He sucked on my clit with the patience and tempo of a master, until soon, I could hear nothing except the sound of blood rushing through my veins, straight to my nipples and my clit. My scalp tingled. On this night, which had started like countless others, with the aroma of Thai chicken simmering on the stove and my anxious pussy simmering in his mouth, I was about give to give Scott a taste of something completely different.

It seemed as if he approved. The smacking of his lips, deep slurping and rhythmic grunts that emanated from him betrayed his pleasure. I had become his soup du jour, his thick, creamy bisque. It seemed as if the man that had made his living using his highly refined palate, would not have changed a thing. He devoured me as if I were his most delectable creation. He continued on, in gluttonous fashion, as if he were afraid of leaving even a drop in the bowl. My thighs tensed against his palms as my insides quaked, warning us both that my bowl was threatening to spill. Soon his lips and chin were coated in my fragrant juices. Waves of my pleasure fed him until he was completed sated, and he leaned back against the ottoman, a look of satisfaction pasted across his face.

“I love the Filet Mignon,” Scott remarked, breaking the awkward silence that followed. “But I’ll never regret trying the oysters.”

I won’t regret it either, I thought to myself, smiling at him. I intended to stock up on oysters, just in case my best friend ever had another craving.