The Cougar Book

by Jolie Du Prè

  “Huh?”

  “Well, you know, if you’d like, I mean, I could go . . . with . . . you . . .”

  “No.” She traced her finger around my chin. “You’re a fine and handsome man, an’ no hard feelings, but I don’t fancy any man cluttering my bed night after night. Remember about all those guitars?”

  “But you got your Les Paul Jr.” I’d have married her on the spot if she’d asked.

  “Men and guitars have similarities, but a lot of differences too. Truth is, honey, I’m married to my music. That’s what I learned through all this. Lucky for me, he ain’t the jealous type.” She gave that infectious wink. “Unfortunately, he don’t keep me in the style to which I’m unaccustomed, but that’s my cross to bear. I love him somthin’ fierce.” She patted my cheek a little hard. “You ain’t so bad though.”

  My heart was broken but I couldn’t stop laughing.

  “I can drive you back to your motel.”

  “S’a gorgeous mornin’. I reckon I’ll walk.” She didn’t look back as she started down the road with her left spaghetti strap draped down her upper arm, and her sandals in her hand as the fresh, orange sun reflected in the silver strands of her hair.

  When she disappeared from view, I found a copy of her CD on my coffee table. I put it in my boom box, and realized that everything she hadn’t told me, and some things I didn’t ask, was there in her songs.

  It’s not smart for the writer to come off as a part of the story, and you don’t get to be much more part than I was. I poured all the energy of losing Adrian into how I described her music and an unflinching telling of her tale. I found that fan from the night before and scanned in her album cover. He was nice enough to bring me an old-school cassette copy of it, too, and some photos of her performing that pivotal night.

  No one was more surprised than I when the wire services picked up the article. Adrian and her band grew in the public eye. She got a nice Wiki page, some fan sites, her own website, a MySpace with 22,362 friends and climbing (yours truly as a Top Eight friend,) and a nice indie CD making its way up the ranks at Amazon.

  She moved on to auditoriums. It seemed Adrian’s lover was taking care of her properly.

  I never did get that date with über-hot Jenn. I made it clear to Talia we were done. I left town a few weeks later, and took the job at that music rag.

  Guess I’d come to terms with Adrian’s lover too.

  Comfort Food

  Donna George Storey

  One bite of that butterscotch pudding and suddenly I knew everything was going to be all right.

  If one of my more sensible friends had been sitting at the table with me, she would have told me the pudding had nothing to do with it. The new, buoyant sensation in my chest was the natural outcome of a relaxed vacation by myself at a charming country inn. The crazy grin on my face, the almost-sexual quickening of my breath was but a long-delayed visceral understanding of all the work I’d done in therapy over the last year. There was no need to wallow in misery any longer. Dylan’s affair and my subsequent decision to divorce him were only symptoms of our buried grief for the real death of our marriage years before. It was time to move on.

  However, since I was alone and had no need to be reasonable, I knew the epiphany was all in the pudding. Perhaps it was the creamy smoothness caressing my tongue like satin? Or the bottomless depth of flavor: caramel, tropical vanilla, and an almost floral, sweet cream, all mixed together with something else mysterious, alluring, even addictive?

  Whatever the reason for the magic, at that moment, I was very glad to be alive.

  When I finished my dessert, resisting the urge to lick the bowl clean, I waved over the pretty waitress.

  “Does your chef give out recipes? I’d love to make this pudding at home to remember my vacation.”

  “Actually, I’m new here. I’m not sure,” she said, blushing. “I’ll ask Joseph.”

  I gazed out the window overlooking the lodge’s perennial garden, wondering what trials of the spirit awaited that fresh, young thing in her life ahead. Or would she be one of the fortunate few who enjoyed the thrill of love without tasting its sorrows? Did such a person even exist?

  I was still lost in my reverie when I became aware of a stocky male form in a white chef’s coat standing beside my chair. Already my nerves were singing from the warmth of his body, his scent of cumin and olive oil, but when I looked up and met his sky-blue eyes, my pulse skipped two beats. “Joseph” was younger than I expected.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed your dessert,” he said.

  “The pudding was exquisite,” I said, pleased at the strangely sultry depth of my voice. “I’d love to have the recipe as a souvenir of my stay here.”

  The boy chef hesitated. I took advantage of the pause to drink in his smooth skin kissed with a touch of five o’clock shadow, the sensual yet determined mouth. Beneath his chef’s toque, his chestnut hair was tousled and very touchable. And who wouldn’t be enchanted by those cerulean eyes boring into my soft, secret places more pleasurably than my favorite ice-blue dildo?

  Here was a tasty dish indeed.

  Finally he spoke. “Again, I’m delighted you liked it, but I’m afraid I don’t give out my recipes.”

  I’m not quite sure what possessed me then. I’d spent most of the last year either sobbing or staring off into space in a self-pitying gloom, but suddenly a fire I’d thought was dead forever sparked to life.

  I tilted my head and smiled. “You remind me of my great-aunt Patricia. She was a fabulous cook, and I know she seduced more men with her culinary talents than many a beauty queen. But tragically, she refused to share her recipes. They all died with her. Isn’t it a shame to deprive the world of your treasures?”

  Joseph folded his arms. “I’m planning on being around for a while.”

  “It might be a lonely existence. Pleasure was meant for sharing.”

  “That’s the price I have to pay,” he replied saucily. “But I will tell you one thing. When you make pudding, never use ultra-pasteurized cream. The processing kills the flavor. Just plain pasteurized is what you’re looking for. Start with quality ingredients and you can’t go wrong.”

  I shrugged. None of this was news to me. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “My pleasure.” He emphasized the last word ever so slightly. “You have a great evening now, ma’am.”

  “Hey, wait,” I called after him. “At least tell me what kind of vanilla beans you use.”

  He paused, mid-step.

  “It’s Tahitian, isn’t it?” I continued. “There’s no mistaking those floral notes.”

  Joseph wheeled around, his eyes glowing with new respect.

  “You’re right,” he said, “I do use Tahitian vanilla beans.”

  “That didn’t hurt, did it? Now I’d guess you use brown sugar, but the flavor’s so rich, it could be caramelized white.”

  He smiled. “Sorry, no comment. I’m onto your tricks, ma’am.”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet.” I met his gaze. He was a luscious young fellow. “Maybe you’d better get back to your kitchen before you divulge any more professional secrets.”

  Pudding aside, it had been a long time since I’d enjoyed anything as much as making that boy blush.

  That night, in my bungalow tucked away at the far corner of the mountain resort, I finally convinced the baby-faced chef to spill all.

  It was perhaps too easy in the end. Boys that age will do anything to get their rocks off, and at forty-four I knew all the ways to bring young men to their knees.

  But that was dessert.

  First came the appetizer: peeling off his sauce-streaked chef coat, and the Coldplay T-shirt he wore underneath.

  “Give me the recipe for that pudding,” I demanded as I ran my hands over his broad chest and shoulders.

  “My apologies, ma’am, but there’s nothing you can do to make that happen.” His words rang with conviction, but his eyes fluttered closed.

  “Oh, no?”
I raked my fingertips over his biceps and circled my way down over the sensitive skin of his arm to his wrist.

  He sighed.

  I grasped his large, sturdy hand—that chopped and stirred and coddled ingredients into wondrous, life-changing elixirs—and brought it to my lips. Taking his index finger in my mouth, I slowly sucked it down, like a cock. He whimpered and shifted his weight. I let his finger float in the soft, liquid heat of my mouth for a moment before I used my tongue on him, flicks and swirls and lapping strokes, a little preview of the things I intended to do to another long, stiff part of his anatomy.

  “There’s more of that if you tell me the recipe.”

  “No . . . I can’t . . . I . . .”

  Smiling mischievously, I took his fuck-you finger in my mouth, fellating it with all my skill until I swear it stiffened and quivered in release. All the while, he was mewing and purring, sweet feline sounds of pure submission.

  My blood was roused and I pulled off, licking the drool from my lips. “You like that, don’t you? But what you really want is for me to do the same thing to your cock.”

  “Yes.” His voice was hoarse with need.

  I knelt before him. His cock was so hard, the fly was practically splitting open from the throbbing pressure. I unbuckled his belt and yanked down his trousers and briefs. My eyes narrowed in hunger at the vision of that ruddy sausage rearing up between his thighs.

  “What a delicious hunk of meat. God I want to suck it.”

  “Please,” he whispered. “Your mouth is so hot and wet. When you licked my fingers, I thought I was going to come in my pants.”

  “But you’d rather come in my mouth?”

  This time his “yes” was a low, beseeching moan.

  “You know what you have to do first,” I taunted him.

  I saw a single tear of frustration roll down his cheek. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you. It was my grandmother’s special dessert. I promised her on her deathbed I’d never give it to a stranger.”

  “Don’t you think we’ll be pretty intimate if your dick is buried in my throat? Even Granny would have to agree.” I wrapped my hand around his cock and pumped slowly. The shaft thickened and swelled, and the head was so red and weepy, it threatened to burst like a ripe fruit.

  “All you have to do is give me that recipe and you’ll get the blowjob of a lifetime,” I cooed.

  Now his legs were shaking and he was panting like an animal. “Oh fuck, all right. Suck it and I’ll tell you. Just suck it, please.”

  I touched the flat of my tongue to the sensitive spot beneath the head. His whole body shivered.

  “For eight servings you start with a cup of brown sugar . . .” The words caught in his throat.

  “Don’t hold anything back now,” I warned him, unzipping my own jeans and jamming one hand down between my legs.

  “Okay, it’s dark brown sugar . . . oh, God, keep licking it, please.”

  I gave him one long, wet swipe of my tongue from shaft to head.

  “Mix in five tablespoons of cornstarch . . .”

  I closed my lips around the helmet of his glans.

  “Press the cornstarch into the sugar with the back of a wooden spoon . . .” He swallowed the words in a groan as I sucked his stocky shaft all the way inside.

  Shifting the hand I’ve wedged into my jeans into the proper position, I started to strum my clit. I was so hot and swollen down there, I knew it wouldn’t be long.

  “Slowly stir in two cups of milk and two cups of heavy cream, not the ultra-pasteurized kind though, and . . . oh, fuck, oh . . .” He thrust his hips and pawed my hair as he shot his own dish of sweet cream pudding into my mouth . . .

  This was the image that finally pushed me over the edge as I fingered myself on my bed, my body wracked by a series of spasms that made me thrash so wildly, the mattress creaked in protest.

  It had been a hell of a long time since I’d come so hard.

  I laughed softly as I stretched my shaky limbs like a cat. I was soaked in sweat, and my palate tasted faintly of semen, although I couldn’t even remember the last time I gave Dylan a blowjob. For so long, sex for me had mostly been with my hand, give or take a few mechanical rebound fucks with Dylan’s old friend from his college days who “always had a thing for me.” Just to prove I could still do it.

  I was surprised at how much I missed the sensation of cock in my mouth.

  That boy chef had served me up another very sweet surprise this evening. I wondered if I’d ever get the chance to thank him properly.

  When I opened my eyes the next morning, I half expected to see Joseph’s face on the pillow beside me. No such luck, but I did I find myself with a new and very welcome companion: a burst of desire to do something.

  After a quick breakfast—a peek through the kitchen door revealed the morning cook was not Joseph—I decided to use my last day of vacation to take advantage of the “twenty miles of beautiful hiking trails” around the resort.

  With a sunny August sky cut by a cooling breeze, the weather was so perfect I could have ordered it off a menu. Thanks to the pudding and the fantasy blowjob, all of my senses were heightened. I reveled in the shapes of each leaf growing along the path, the sound of the birdsong, the clean scent of baked earth and oxygen-rich air. And of course, all the time I was thinking of Joseph. What was he doing now? What experience in his brief life made him wary of sharing his recipes? He was a cook who clearly enjoyed eating. Would his cock be as solid and sturdy as the rest of his body? And most intriguing of all—would his semen really taste like vanilla cream pudding?

  Thirty years ago, I would have called these obsessive musings a crush, but I was wise enough now to know it had nothing to do with Joseph himself. It was all about me. I was a woman who could feel and want and enjoy life’s sensual pleasures. My desire made me more interesting to myself.

  I must have walked for over an hour in a daze of lust when I wandered into a clearing to find the very object of my dreams standing before me. For a moment I thought I was hallucinating, but a few blinks reassured me that it was in fact the real Joseph, looking especially fetching in his off-duty jeans.

  When he saw me, he seemed equally flustered.

  “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, and 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, and 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 breath 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.