“How did you find this place?” If I didn’t know better, I’d say the boy was afraid.
I noticed then that the large metal bucket at his feet was half full of dark berries. We were standing in a wild blackberry grove, which Joseph, with his secretive nature, probably hoped to keep to himself.
The image of myself as a culinary predator amused me, and I laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not stalking you to get that recipe. I was just trying to work up an appetite for dinner. Are we having blackberry cobbler tonight?”
Joseph laughed, too, and returned to his work, his lusciously large fingers closing around the fattest, darkest berries with impressive speed. “There won’t be enough for a cobbler this late in the season. I’ll probably do a blackberry sauce for the rice pudding.”
“Oooh, rice pudding? You can have your fancy, flourless chocolate torte any day, give me a good dish of homey rice pudding, and I’m in heaven.” I hadn’t meant to sound so much like a gushing teenager, but I was telling him the truth.
“You like comfort food, then?” he said, his expression warming noticeably.
“I suppose I do. And you like to make it?”
“Very much. It’s not as glamorous as fusion or the Chez Panisse rip-offs, but I think there’s a lot of potential in home-style cooking. Actually I’m talking with some investors now about opening my own place in the city. Diner food, but raised to a new level.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said. “I’m sure it will be a great success. Everyone needs comfort, right?”
“I hope so.” He smiled at me for just a little too long, then turned back to his berries.
The silence between us pressed down on my flesh like a warm hand. I was so hot for this sweet young thing, I could barely breathe. I was thinking up a way to make a graceful exit before I actually pounced on him right there, when Joseph spoke again.
“Are you in the food business? You seem to know your ingredients.”
“Me? No, it’s just a hobby. Although I haven’t cooked much since my divorce,” I blurted out, then blushed. As if the boy would even care if an old bag like me were attached or not.
“Well, I was impressed,” he said. “Do you mind doing me a favor…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Natalie…Natalie Weston. And you are?”
“Joseph Sokolsky,” he nodded politely. His mother had certainly raised him right. “So, Natalie, would you mind tasting a few of these berries?”
“Sure.” I plucked two berries from his outstretched hand. My fingers brushed his palm, sending a jolt of lust straight to my pussy. I forced myself to breathe slowly. “What am I looking for?”
“Just taste it,” he said, his eyes fixed on my face.
I popped the fruit in my mouth and chewed. My eyes shot open in surprise. “Oh.”
“What?” Joseph leaned toward me.
“They’re fabulous. I don’t think I’ve ever had blackberries so sweet. I can taste the slow sunshine in them, the work of nature’s patient hand. You could never get something like this in a store.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” His smile was sunshine in itself. “Well, I’ll definitely be using these in a sauce tonight then. If you like it, I’m sure the less discerning guests will eat it up.”
I blushed again, dizzy from the compliment. Funny how I was worried about the difference in our ages, when at that instant, I felt all of fourteen.
The hike left me famished, and I decided to have an early dinner. Not to mention I figured I’d have a better chance for one last chat with Joseph before the crowds descended.
I sauntered past the hostess’s podium and peeked into the open door of the kitchen. Two sous chefs were busy at the stove, and the waitress was dropping lemon slices into pitchers of ice water. Just then Joseph himself appeared beside the young woman with a spoon in his hand.
“I need a guinea pig, Jackie. It’s the sauce for the pudding.”
He eased the spoon into her mouth like a mama bird feeding her baby.
“‘S good,” she murmured, her mouth still full.
He clucked his tongue. “All you’re gonna give me is ‘good?’”
She giggled. “No, I mean great. Everything you make is wonderful.”
Joseph punched her lightly on the arm. “That’s why you’re my favorite waitress. Hey, it’s almost five-thirty. You’d better get your pretty self out there to hand the hungry lions their chow.”
“Lions?” “Chow?” The insults snapped me out of my voyeur’s trance and I made a quick retreat to the lobby. I was blushing again, but with a new emotion: unadulterated shame. How ridiculous I was to imagine a boy like him might actually think I was special. Joseph was quite simply a ladies’ man. Females were just toys to bat around in his big, clever paws. The young pussies were for teasing and fucking—he’d have that girl in bed before the end of the week, no doubt. Flirting with me was just a passing amusement, just to show he could charm us all.
My first impulse was to slink back to my room. However, my stomach was growling so badly, I decided to take a short walk around the grounds, then come back when I could blend into the surroundings.
Unfortunately, the dining room was full when I got back. Jackie seated me at a table near the kitchen, where I caught frequent, and now unwelcome, glimpses of Joseph at work through the swinging door. It was childish of me, but I bypassed the chef’s recommended specials—risotto cake with prawns and pistachio pesto, summer vegetable galette with green beans à la Nicoise—and went for the pedestrian salad with roasted beets and goat cheese.
I forced down the greens with little enjoyment, then asked for the check. To my surprise, Jackie slipped a large plate in front of me instead.
“Compliments of the chef,” she murmured.
I stared down at the plate, which immediately brought to mind a modern painting. The composition was artful indeed: a small molded rice pudding crowned with two whole blackberries, floating in a crisscross net of glistening indigo sauce.
Under any other circumstances, I would have been salivating in delight, but now I just wanted to cry. “I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well. I don’t think I can eat this.”
She whisked the plate away, but soon returned with a carefully folded paper bag. “Joseph asked me to wrap it up for you in case you’re feeling better later.”
I instinctively glanced toward the kitchen. The door opened just a crack to reveal Joseph’s frowning face gazing out at me.
I bit back a smile.
Apparently, I had the power to hurt him, too.
As soon as I got back to my room, I tore open the bag and ripped into the paper box inside. The waitress—or Joseph—had thoughtfully included a napkin and a plastic spoon, but like some wild beast, I pinched off a chunk of the rice pudding with my fingers and jammed it into my mouth.
The moan that escaped from my lips made me glad I’d retreated to my private lair. It was, quite simply, the most delicious rice pudding I’d ever eaten in my life. The texture was mousse-like, rich with cream but airy as a cloud. I tasted a kiss of rum, a heartier vanilla than the day before. Mexican perhaps? I’d only gotten a mere ribbon of sauce in my first mouthful, but it did indeed taste like the essence of summer sunshine.
Joseph might be a recipe hoarder and an incorrigible flirt, but when it came to pudding, the guy was a fucking genius.
Hurt pride and misdirected lust were mere distractions in the face of such greatness. I knew then what I had to do. But first I savored the pudding slowly, smacking my lips, purring my approval, scooping up the remnants of sauce from the box with my fingers and sucking them clean.
It was near ten o’clock when I walked boldly into the kitchen and asked for the chef. The remaining assistant pointed me to a small room in the back corner.
Joseph looked older sitting at a desk covered with papers and charts, his brow creased with concern.
“Sorry to disturb you,” I said, “but I just had to tell you the rice pudding wa
s amazing. The best I’ve ever tasted.”
His lips stretched into a grin. “I hope that means you’re feeling better?”
“Much better.”
“Well, tomorrow I’m making chocolate pudding, updated for more sophisticated tastes. I’d be curious what you think.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry I’ll miss it. I’m leaving in the morning.”
His face crumpled.
“I’d ask for the recipe, but I learned my lesson,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Speaking of that, I have something I’d like to say in private. Do you have time for a walk?”
With the way his eyes sparkled, how could I refuse?
Out of habit, I started strolling toward my bungalow and Joseph followed. He didn’t speak until we were well away from the main lodge.
“I’ve decided to give you the recipe for the butterscotch pudding,” he announced.
I actually gasped. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not. I’ve also decided to tell you why. Even though you might think I’m kind of a creep.”
“I can’t imagine that I would,” I said softly.
“Well, I’ve been sort of watching you over the past week. The first day at dinner you looked so sad and thin, but you smiled when you ate my food. As the days passed you looked…happier. I thought—well, maybe this will sound stuck-up—but I thought maybe my cooking was helping you feel better.”
For a moment I couldn’t speak. My chest ached, but sweetly, as if he’d reached inside and soothed my sore heart. “Actually, I have been going through a rough time, and your food did comfort me. When I tasted your butterscotch pudding last night, I knew I was going to be all right. I wanted to thank you for that, but I didn’t think I’d get the chance.”
“No, I should thank you. It’s nice to make a difference. Sometimes I wonder if anyone even notices,” he said.
“I noticed.”
“I appreciate that. So, I’m going to give you the recipe, but I’d prefer if you don’t let anyone else know about this.”
We’d reached my bungalow and I paused before the door. “Of course. Do you mind if we do it in my room so I can take notes?”
The words slipped out before I realized my proposal might have a less innocent interpretation.
But the way Joseph smiled then, well, I suddenly knew everything was going to be all right indeed.
At first we both behaved in a civilized manner. I sat at the desk and wrote the recipe down on the hotel stationery while Joseph stood beside me and dictated. Yet, like the night before, his warmth, his scent, made it hard to concentrate on my task.
When I stood up and thanked him again, he didn’t step back. We were standing so close I could have licked him.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Twenty-six.”
“I’m old enough to be your mother.”
Joseph just smiled and said, “But you’re not.”
Then he leaned down and kissed me.
His lips were satin, and his mouth tasted like cream and vanilla and sex, and I wanted to taste him everywhere, just like my fantasy the night before. But it wasn’t at all like the fantasy, because Joseph didn’t stand passively while I undressed him and sucked his fingers and then his cock. He backed me up to the bed and laid my body over it, as he might arrange the day’s special on a plate. And so I was the one who submitted, who closed my eyes and sighed, who shivered when he took my nipple in his mouth and licked and sucked with consummate skill.
I was the one who confessed, in a voice hoarse with need, that I wanted to fuck him so badly, but I didn’t have any condoms.
“What’s the problem?” he replied with a smile. “After all, we both like to eat.”
That’s how I found myself with my ass propped on a pillow and Joseph’s face buried between my legs. Not surprisingly, he was a master at this kind of dining, too, the ultimate multitasker, flicking my clit with his tongue, while both hands tweaked and pinched my sensitive breasts. He made me so wet, my juices flowed down over my slit, soaking the pillow. But I didn’t care; I knew no shame. I came in record time, my thighs shaking, my head thrashing, my hips bucking like a cowboy on a bull. Joseph rode it with me, tonguing me to the finish. I could tell he enjoyed his meal from the glistening grin on his face.
I cleaned my juices from his chin and lips with my tongue and told him it was my turn to eat.
Joseph’s cock was medium-length and thick, a perfect mouthful. I ate him like an ice-cream cone, savoring his musk and spice. His groans and sighs told me I hadn’t lost my skill. Then I got the naughty idea to ask if he liked a finger up his ass when he was getting a blow job. To my surprise—and delight—he confessed that he’d never done that before, but he was always interested in experimenting with new ingredients.
At last, I could thank him for the pudding in a way he would remember.
Wetting my forefinger in my mouth, I teased him in that sensitive spot behind his balls, tracing a slippery trail back along his crack to his secret, puckered hole.
“Push open for me,” I whispered, easing my fingertip into that tiny, delicate mouth. His hard-on twitched and I pushed farther, gentle in my defloration. I took his cock between my lips and ran the tip of my tongue around the crown. His shaft swelled against my lips, hard as a marble rolling pin, but that made it all the easier to glide up and down, up and down. When his breath quickened, I crooked my finger forward—come here, come here—and a few strokes later, my dessert arrived. Tonight’s finale was, of course, hot jets of cream splashing against the back of my throat accompanied by a garnish of low, animal moans. I made sure to swirl the chef’s special sauce around my mouth before I swallowed. As always, it was exquisite, something only he could make.
Definitely a dish to remember.
And so, although I promised not to share the recipe for the butterscotch pudding, I don’t mind passing on the secret for an even sweeter ending to a good meal. I guarantee it will make you very glad you’re alive.
Chef Joseph’s Creamy Cougar Pudding (serves two generously)
Ingredients:
1 brawny, tireless boy chef
1 fortysomething divorcée with a sweet tooth
Garnish with:
1 hotel bed with extra pillows
A package of condoms purchased from the men’s room in the hotel lobby for the next round
Mix both ingredients together well until they release their natural juices. Repeat as desired.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JACQUELINE APPLEBEE is a writer who breaks down barriers with smut. Her stories have been published in anthologies such as Best Women’s Erotica, Alison’s Wonderland and Fast Girls. She can be found online at writing-in-shadows.co.uk.
Born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, OLIVIA ARCHER now resides in Los Angeles. She isn’t your typical California girl who rides the waves of surf, she would rather ride (or write) waves of pleasure.
DEL CARMEN is a sexy Latina from New York City. She is new to erotica and looking forward to exposing more of herself. Visit her at mydelcarmen.blogspot.com.
ELIZABETH COLDWELL lives and writes in London. Her short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies including Please, Sir; Smooth and Orgasmic. She can be found blogging at The (Really) Naughty Corner, elizabethcoldwell.wordpress. com. She doesn’t smoke, but she has no objection to cute men, Dutch or otherwise, who do.
PORTIA DA COSTA pens both romance and women’s erotica and is the author of over twenty novels and a hundred-plus short stories. Praised for her vivid, emotional writing, she’s best known for her Black Lace titles, but now writes for a variety of publishers, including Harlequin Spice.
JEN CROSS is a writer, performer and writing workshop facilitator. Her writing appears in many anthologies and periodicals, including Make/Shift, Nobody Passes, Visible: A Femmethology and Best Sex Writing 2008. She tours with the Body Heat Femme Porn Tour and facilitates writing workshops in the Bay Area. For more, visit writingours
elveswhole.org.
JUSTINE ELYOT is the author of On Demand and The Business of Pleasure, as well as having contributed numerous short stories to volumes of erotica and erotic romance. Her work can be found in anthologies from Cleis Press, Black Lace, Xcite Books and Total E-Bound, among others.
KIN FALLON is a writer from England. She likes and wants more love, happiness and pleasure for herself and others. She spends her spare time trying to spread peace and love in the world as best she can.
BRANDY FOX writes poetry, short stories, essays, and novels for both children and adults, but writing erotica has by far been the most fun. She lives in Washington State with her spouse and two boys.
SHANNA GERMAIN has an unending lust for all things shiny and sharp, including knives, nipple clamps and quick wits. You can read more of her work in places like Best American Erotica, Best Bondage Erotica 2, Best Gay Romance, Best Lesbian Erotica, Bitten, Frenzy and Playing With Fire. Join her other stalkers at shannagermain.com.
K. D. GRACE lives in England with her husband. She is passionate about nature, writing, and sex—not necessarily in that order. She enjoys Chinese martial arts, frightening attempts to learn piano, long distance walking and extreme vegetable gardening. She has published a novel, The Initiation of Ms. Holly.
AIMEE HERMAN, a performance poet, currently works as sections editor of erotica for Oysters & Chocolate. She can be read in the anthologies, Oysters & Chocolate Erotic Stories of Every Flavor, Best Lesbian Love Stories 2010 and Best Women’s Erotica 2010.
LUCY HUGHES lives by the Gulf of Mexico among the pelicans and palmettos. She is currently in graduate school, and writes fiction when the professors forget to lock the door, allowing her to escape from the lab.
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