by Jolie Du Prè
“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 ala Nicoise—and went for the pedestrian salad with roasted beets and goat cheese.
I forced down the greens with little enjoyment, and 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 was 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 . . . 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 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 mas
ter at this kind of dining, too, the ultimate multi-tasker: 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 blowjob. 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.
Illicit Desires
J.C. Wesner
“Oh! Yes, God, more, more, Javier!” She growled, as her manicured nails furiously rubbed her clit. He let out a mighty roar as he thrust into her once more, roughly, his cock twitching with his release.
She sighed. “Oh, thank you, Javier,” she said as she moved off of him. She walked to the open balcony door, slipping into a silk robe. She looked out over South Beach with a smile. Movement caught her eye and she watched him travel across the bed. He really was a beautiful specimen. He stood and stretched, pulling the condom off and slipping it into the trash can in the bathroom.
She traveled over to her Prada bag and pulled out a fifty before she walked back to him. “Here. Thank you for your fast and prompt service.”
He looked at the money and grinned as he slid his pants back up. “Sí, gracias, Señora Summerton.”
She smiled at the waiter as he nodded. “Your food should still be de right temperatura,” he said, bowing his way out of her suite.
She lifted the lid and smiled at the lox, bagels, and cream cheese that sat upon a bed of lettuce. Thankfully I decided not to do the egg white omelet this morning. No doubt it would have been cold by now. She smirked to herself as she sat down to enjoy her breakfast.
She was everything she ever wanted to be: successful, brilliant, wealthy, and now she was heading out for a grand vacation aboard a cruise ship. Here, her smile slipped. With my father and wife number . . . what is it now? Three? Four? She had lost count.
The worst thing for her was the fact that his new bride, Naomi, was eight years her junior. That was a disgrace. The horror. If she had known that was what he would have brought back when he went to New York on business, she would have went herself instead of traveling to Italy and finding that beautiful Italian boy to fuck.
She hurried about her morning, eager to get to the ship and attempt to enjoy herself. At least I’ll be able to find something to keep me occupied aboard ship. Perhaps even a few ‘somethings.’
“My father is an idiot!” She shouted into her phone to her best friend Chelsea as she rode in the hotel’s limo toward the port of Miami three hours later. “First he marries this trollop, can you believe she had a kid at fifteen? What the fuck is that about? And now my disillusioned father insists we go on a family ‘vacation’ to bond or some shit.” She sneered into the phone. “Honestly, Chelsea, I swear to God . . . the man has gone senile.”
“What about this woman? Is she a gold digger? Should I have my P.I. try to dig up dirt on her?” Chelsea, like a good friend, asked.
Nicci snorted into the phone. “No. On the contrary. She’s Mother fucking Teresa.”
“What about the kid?” Chelsea asked.
“I haven’t met him. He’s quite studious, from what I hear. He’s pre-med. I think he got a scholarship.”
Chelsea laughed. “Yeah, with your father’s money.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me. Listen, I’m here. I have to go be ‘one’ with my family now. I’ll talk to you when I get stateside or if I just can’t take all the gooeyness anymore.”
Chelsea laughed again. “Have fun, Nic.”
“Certainly. Because this is my idea of fun.”
“Well, at least there are a lot of dicks in the sea.”
Nicci snorted. “Chelsea! You made a joke!”
“Ha. Ha. Bitch.”
Nicci smiled. “I’m going to miss you, Chels. Really.”
“I’ll miss you, too, you whore. Go out and find the prettiest cock in the place and ride it for me, won’t you?”
“I always do,” Nic said as she snapped her phone shut.
The droning sound of her father’s ring-tone brought her out of her musings as she looked about her cabin. She looked at her phone and sighed. “Yes, Daddy?” she asked in answer. He was always ‘Daddy’ unless they were at work. Then he was “Dave,” or “Davis,” his given name. They didn’t mix business with family. Most people found that hard to believe, but then, they hadn’t lived with the man. It was easy to be just like him when she didn’t have a mother to soften the blow.
“Hello, darling! We were wondering if you’d join us. We’re up on the pool deck.”
She hid the annoyance and said, “Sure. Just give me a few more moments to freshen up. I just arrived.”
He chuckled. “Let me guess. You found something to distract you this morning.”
Too much alike, equals the fact that he knows me too well. She smiled. “Well, you know how I like a good Cuban in the morning, Daddy.”
He laughed his boisterous laugh and said, “Fine, fine, get cleaned up. We’ll be drinking Mai Tai’s and enjoying some of the Miami heat.”
She took her time, but she finally dragged herself up to the eleventh floor. She grabbed a drink from one of the roving trays, giving her room number to charge it to, and she sipped, taking in the sights. There were quite a few people on deck already. And that’s when she saw him.
God, he was beautiful. Blond hair, with just a hint of curl to it, strong, lean swimmer’s body, long legs, longer than even her own thirty-four inch inseam. That was a plus. She’d fucked a lot of men shorter than herself, and it had its attributes, but there was just something about a man taller than she that got her clit tingling and her La Perla panties wet.
She licked her now-dry lips and took anothe
r sip of her drink as she moved toward him. Forget family time, I need to be riding him. Now. She moved with the air of a jungle cat stalking her prey. She had just about reached him when the crowd parted . . . , and she saw him standing, talking to her father.
What! She stopped dead in her tracks. Perhaps he’s just a waiter. No need to be alarmed. You know how Daddy meets new friends. Everywhere he goes he sees someone to talk to. That’s all.
She swallowed hard at the slight sense of panic and began moving her feet again. She put on a smile and walked up to her father. “Daddy,” she said, ignoring the beautiful man standing beside him.
“Hello, Nicci! I’m so glad you could join us,” her father said.
She kissed his cheek. Davis Stuart Summerton III was a statuesque man in his own right. He held a degree of poise and charm that reflected his Southern roots. With his soft accent and his deep baritone voice, he had the ability to calm a room with ease.
“Hello, Nichole,” Naomi said demurely from where she sat next to Davis. “We’re really excited you were able to take the time off to join us.”
Nic smiled, for her father’s sake, at least. “Yes, well, I do have a slave driver for a boss. But when he demands I take a vacation, I have to listen.”
Davis guffawed. “Nic, you’re too much like your old man.”
She smiled at him, a true smile this time. “Hey, like father, like daughter, correct?” Only I have enough common sense not to marry everything I fuck, unlike you, dearest Daddy, she added silently.
“Oh, Nicci. I want you to meet someone,” Davis said.
She turned expectantly to the god standing beside them. “Nic, this is Carson McNeill.”
She opened her mouth to say something sexy when her father dropped the rest of the bombshell: “Your newest step-brother.”