by Neneh Gordon
Instead of sinking into misery and Mars bars, Shelley decided to take action. She bought self-help books and created a bunch of affirmations to recite every morning: I am winning Andrew back. Andrew loves me and is coming back. This is a temporary blip. She cut out pasta, chocolate and desserts, ate plenty of fruit and vegetables, and took up jogging by the towpath near where she lived. And as she jogged, she affirmed: I am slim, fit and beautiful. And I am winning Andrew back.
Over time, she began to lose weight, got herself a new haircut and started to feel more confident. She’d run into him somewhere, she plotted. He’d be blown away by how great she looked, and by her apparent ease with life without him. Or that was the plan, anyway. A month ago, she visited a country spa, where she indulged in yoga, massage and detox. As she emerged, a newer, brighter, more positive woman, ready to win back her man, she saw Andrew, emerging from the church opposite, his new bride on his arm.
Shelley plunged into depression. She’d done all the right things and yet she’d lost him forever. Her friends Melanie and Ruth were there for her, as ever, insisting that Andrew had been all wrong and that it was time to move on. As her birthday approached, they asked what it was she most wanted.
“Nothing virtuous,” she told them. After her year of abstinence, Shelley was clear on that point.
On the day of her birthday, Mel and Ruth announced that they had laid on something special.
“Wear that new cocktail dress of yours,” Mel suggested. “The brown silk one. You’ll understand why when you get there.”
When Shelley turned up at their meeting place—a chic address in the middle of town—she discovered it was the Delice de Chocolat Cookery School, run by the Michelin-starred chef Laurent de Villier, who was famed for his sexy good looks, sultry passion and his regular TV appearances.
Shelley found herself inside a chocolate wonder-world, full of soft, creamy armchairs and chic coffee-coloured walls on which framed photographs of extravagant chocolate confections hung. It was a temple to chocolate, a palace of cocoa worship, and in that dress, of course, she fitted in perfectly.
Waiting for her there were Mel and Ruth, a bottle of champagne at the ready. Melanie was a legal secretary, tall and willowy with blonde hair and pale blue eyes, and Ruth a food writer who knew every restaurant in town.
“Happy birthday! Your gift is an evening’s chocolate-making lesson, what do you think?” Ruth asked.
“I’m overwhelmed,” Shelley bubbled, giddily taking a sip of champagne.
“They say he makes Gordon Ramsay look like a kitten, but he’s devastatingly sexy,” said Mel.
“I’ve met him,” Ruth confided, lowering her voice to a whisper. “He’s as dark and intense as any cocoa bean, and deservedly the most fancied chef on TV.”
They laughed in anticipation and Shelley began to open her presents, all wrapped up and spread out on the table. From Mel, two sex toys: a vibrator and a small butt plug, which made her laugh. From Ruth, a year’s subscription to Gourmet Cuisine.
“You know you’re getting older when you prefer food magazines to fashion,” Shelley admitted, before trying out the vibrator on the palm of her hand. “This, I take it, is one of your favourites?”
“It’s my ‘who needs a boyfriend?’ toy,” Mel told her. “From the first time you use it, you’ll be addicted.”
There was the sound of someone clearing his throat and in the doorway stood a tall, ruggedly handsome man, with a tangle of dark hair and a mildly amused look on his face.
Ruth jumped to her feet as if greeting royalty.
“Ladies, allow me to introduce you to Laurent de Villier, who specialises in the most exquisite desserts and pastries, turning them into an art form. Usually he only teaches other chefs, but once a month he shares some of his secrets with a select few.”
“So happy to meet you,” Shelley said, shaking his hand and feeling herself beginning to melt under his intense stare.
“You too,” he replied with a warm but controlled smile. “Follow me.” He led them into an industrial-sized kitchen, complete with accessories and equipment that looked as if they belonged in an operating theatre.
“So, we begin with a simple tasting,” he started, his French accent oozing like rich cream. “And then after, we will build together my speciality, the Delice de Chocolat: a rich but smooth chocolate mousse set upon a crisp biscuit base, served with spicy chocolate sorbet and a pool of caramel-cumin sauce.”
“Caramel and cumin?” the women clucked nervously, giggling together. It was like being back at school and fancying the teacher. They were all being reduced to silly, giggly schoolgirls.
“We start with the chocolate. It must be dark and strong…”
“Like my men,” blurted out Mel, before giggling and taking a large swig of champagne.
He paused, offering her an indulgent smile.
“A minimum of seventy percent cocoa, very intense. But for you, I will share something special. This is my favourite, it’s ninety percent cocoa, from Ecuador, its flavours deep and multi-layered.”
As he spoke, he opened the cardboard wrapper like it was an exquisite gift, every manoeuvre of his fingers and thumbs deft and deliberate. The women watched as he placed the foil-wrapped bar on the work surface and gently but assuredly peeled it. “It’s like taking off an haute couture dress to reveal smooth, exquisite skin. You cannot rush it. Every movement is to be cherished. It’s sensual, a ritual.”
When the chocolate was finally naked, he broke off a piece at the corner. “Birthday girl,” he said warmly, turning to Shelley. “Close your eyes and taste this.”
Shelley did as told, and he placed the jagged piece of chocolate on her tongue.
“Now, slowly let it melt in your mouth, and then tell me what it tastes like. The cocoa tree, it loves shade, it grows low in the rain forest, in the humidity, near the Amazon and in parts of West Africa. Now, tell me, what flavours do you taste?”
“It’s very dark,” Shelley started, once the chocolate had melted. “But it’s smooth, not bitter. It’s a very deep flavour. Nutty, there’s something nutty to it. And I don’t know, a bit floral?”
“Floral? Very good. But tell me, which type of flower?”
“Oh gosh,” Shelley started nervously. Taking her driving test hadn’t been this stressful. “It’s not rose, it’s something else—jasmine? I think it’s jasmine.”
“Excellent, I’m impressed. You have very sensitive taste buds. For me, it’s the most potent of chocolates, one of the rarest and most precious forms.”
Shelley opened her eyes and had to clutch the table top to stop herself from fainting. She felt light-headed and fluttery, and ached with desire.
“Now. We will proceed.”
The evening went on with Shelley trying hard to focus on chocolates and biscuit bases and sorbets and sauces, while all the time thinking about Laurent de Villier’s body, and his fingers, and his deep eyes, and the light grazing of stubble on his chin. She longed for him to unwrap her dress, so that they could savour each other’s bodies like the finest Ecuadorian blend.
The Delice de Chocolat made, and then eaten, each woman was given a sample of fine chocolates and a small recipe collection to try at home. They said their reluctant goodbyes to the chef, and after hugging each other outside, went off in different directions. On her way to the station, however, Shelley remembered she’d left her presents in the reception. She returned to the building and rang the doorbell. A minute later, the intercom buzzed and she tentatively pushed the door open.
“Did you forget something?” she heard somebody call out from the kitchen.
She followed the silky French voice and blushed to see a smiling Laurent de Villier standing by the table, holding up her vibrator.
“In all the excitement I just totally…” She broke off as their eyes met and a shock of electricity seemed to flow between them.
“I was just enjoying a Grand Marnier. Will you join me for a drink? The orange of the liqueu
r complements the dark of the chocolate.” Their eyes met as he sipped from his glass.
“Would you like to taste?” he asked. Shelley nodded and, maintaining eye contact, leaned in to kiss him. As their lips met, she could taste the richness of the drink mixed in with something else: his unique scent. It was divine. She savoured the moment and all its implications.
“Your dress. It’s very beautiful, like chocolate, non?”
He turned her around and, pushing her hair to one side, gently tugged at the zip, opening it up like that bar of intense Ecuadorian cocoa. “But it’s only a dress. The real prize is inside, under the wrapper. It’s like your birthday gifts. Elegant wrapping on the outside, each concealing a sensual secret within.” He kissed the back and sides of her neck, and Shelley found herself leaning into him, gasping at the touch of his perfect lips. Once the zip was fully undone, he lowered the dress down her back and she let it fall off, stepping outside it in her underwear and heels.
“You like the vibrator?” he asked.
“I prefer the real thing.”
“Of course. You’re a connoisseur. Not many people can taste the jasmine. It makes you special. I use chocolate as an art form,” he told her, taking her by the hand and leading her back into the kitchen. “We will use cocoa produced in the fields of Saint Lucia.”
Shelley, unsure what he meant, blurted out, “Didn’t it all go in the mousse?”
He smiled. “Now it is melted and still a little warm to the touch. I want to tattoo your body, and then lick it off.” He cleared a space for her on his large kitchen table, and then lifted her up, pushing her down onto her back. “You will like this to happen, no?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Your bra, it must go.” He eased his hands around her back and unclasped her bra. “Your breasts are magnificent.” He grasped them in his hands, massaging them and tugging at her nipples, which were by now fully erect. She gasped as he pushed her back down and started to stir the melted chocolate, and then taking a fine utensil, began to trace a line around one nipple, then the next, before creating two flowers, with petals that spread around her breasts and stems which reached to her belly button.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered once he’d finished. “Good enough to eat.” He pushed her legs open and slid himself between them, bending forwards to lick at each nipple, and then, once his tongue was fully coated in chocolate, he kissed her, filling her mouth with the intense flavour.
By now Shelley’s pussy was throbbing and she longed for him to pay her some attention down there. But he was determined to tease her. The whole evening, she realised, had been nothing but a tease.
“Let me suck you,” she whispered, trying to regain some control.
She sat upright, her bottom on the edge of the table, and ran her hand down his chest to where a noticeable bulge had emerged in his trousers. She undid his fly and his cock sprang out. She took it in her hand and started to massage up and down his shaft while he reached for a foil packet. She slid herself off the table and pulled his trousers and boxers fully down to the stone floor, then she reached for his glass, filling her mouth with orange liqueur, and took him inside her, sloshing the liquid around the tip of his cock, flicking and licking and swallowing, devouring him whole. Her hands migrated from his balls, firm and full, to his buttocks, which were smooth and tight and muscular. She let her fingers meet at his crack, tickling his ass, before inserting one finger inside him. Suddenly he shuddered.
“My God, I want to fuck you!” he told her.
“You can, after you eat me,” she said with a smirk.
He smiled, as if realising he’d met his sexual match. She sprang back onto the table and opened her legs. He raised her right leg onto his shoulder and lowered himself, kissing and nibbling her calf and then her thigh, until he reached the fabric of her knickers, and then he pulled it to one side and plunged his tongue inside her, pulling open her folds and licking them while inserting two fingers deep inside her pussy.
Abruptly, he stopped, reaching for the vibrator and turning it on, while she removed her knickers. “How do you like this, I wonder?” he asked, placing the vibrator against her pussy. “Like this?” he asked as she adjusted herself. “Or like this?”
The sensation was exquisite, and she began to understand how Mel had managed without a man for so long. But she had a lifetime of pleasure ahead with the toy, Shelley told herself. With de Villier, she only had that one chance.
“I prefer you,” she whispered, longing to feel his cock inside her.
“It will take a minute. Ah, what about this?” He picked up the butt plug, examining it like it was some new kitchen utensil. “Some lubrication, I think?” He lifted it to his mouth and sucked the tip indulgently, keeping his eyes on her. Holding her thigh against his shoulder, he lifted her up so that her buttocks were raised off the table, and began to insert the plug.
Shelley had never been more aroused. “Lick me,” she whispered. “I need you to lick me as well.”
He lowered his face and obliged her, and now all her sensations ran into each other: his wet tongue, her juices, the plug easing its way inside her anus. Everything started to mingle, and when he inserted his fingers inside her pussy, she no longer knew where anything started or finished, but was reduced to one molten liquid mass of pleasure and indulgence.
She pushed herself one way against his fingers and the other way against the butt plug, and then a third against his tongue, until she could feel her orgasm reaching boiling point—she’d arrived a solid, cold bar of chocolate and was now reduced to a bubbling, liquid, trembling mass, shuddering and gasping and in exquisite danger of boiling over.
It was happening, her orgasm was washing over her, like waves of melted chocolate, some sweet, others dark, some with white chocolate tips concealing a chilli edge underneath; she became caramel and mocha and orange, all mixed together in one swirling, writhing mass of pleasure.
When her orgasm finally subsided, Laurent removed the butt plug and she lay back on the table, exhausted. He lay beside her, his shirt dishevelled and his hard-on waiting to be exercised.
“We’re not in sync,” she admitted. “But fuck me anyway. I still want to feel you inside me.”
He climbed on top of her and slid himself inside. Despite the numbness that had spread over her, she could tell he was big and smooth and practised, only needing a few thrusts to come, and he pulled her arms up beyond her head and kissed her deeply.
“It’s been a good birthday, non?”
“The best.”
“And other days can be your birthday, too?”
She wondered what he meant by this.
“I’m divorced, no children,” he continued. “I work long hours and my work will always come first. But you. You are soft, voluptuous, you are like a prize dessert to me. You have refined taste buds—you will be my inspiration, my muse, my Delice de Chocolat. We make no promises, but we can try?”
She nodded, her heart still pounding. “Yes,” she told him, breathlessly, amazed at her change in fortune. “There’s nothing I’d like more. We’ll make no promises, but we can certainly try.”
“I Promise to… Please”
by Lily Harlem
The faraway look Jake sometimes got in his eyes frightened me. Not chill-to-the-bones scared, or creeping-through-a-graveyard-in-the-middle-of-the-night terrified, but an unease, a throat-tightening fear for the future—our future.
Despite his devil-may-care persona he’d been broken when I’d first met him. After spending years in love with a girl who was never going to love him back, he’d almost given up on happiness. I’d spent many an evening as his ‘friend’, hanging out in the village local, knocking back drinks and watching sport on the big-screen TV. Often he’d end up chatting about Marie, and I would listen patiently, my heart twisting with longing for him to talk of me that way.
How she couldn’t have let herself fall into those inky-black eyes of his, been mesmerized by his slightly p
lump bottom lip and the soul patch of dark stubble he let grow beneath it, was beyond me. Jake was a hunk in a league of his own, to my eyes at least. Tall, dark and handsome described him well but was too bland a phrase. It didn’t capture the way he held his big body in a casual, muscular, long-limbed way. It didn’t mention the silver bar in his right eyebrow that gave him an edgy, could-be-a-rebel look, which, I’d discovered, hit all the right buttons in me.
He was leaning on a single bar fence now, gazing across the field that stretched from the back of our cottage garden. The sun had dipped, twilight would soon be upon us, rubbing away the last lilacs and pinks that washed across the sky in slim fingers.
“Hey, you,” I said, resting my hand between his shoulder blades and feeling his body heat radiate onto my palm.
He turned. I knew I’d surprised him by the look on his face.
“Cassie, I didn’t know you were back from work.”
“Just got in.” I glanced down at my nurse’s uniform and clumpy shoes. “What were you daydreaming about?”
He twisted, reached for my hand and tugged me close. Pressed a kiss to my lips. “You.”
“I wish.”
He looked hurt. “I was, though…” He paused and shrivelled his nose. “You didn’t smell like a hospital in my daydream.”
“Sorry.” I stepped back with a grin. “I’ll go shower.”
“Good plan. I’ll get dinner started. I bet you’re starving.”
***
I let the lavender-scented body-wash replace the smells of the ward and held my face to the streaming water. Jake and I had been married for three years. Working hard, paying a big mortgage, getting the cottage just how we planned. Life was good, and I wanted it to stay that way. I would sell my soul to keep things between Jake and I on an even keel. He was my world, my universe, my reason for breathing, and I couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been.
But perhaps work and our decorating plans should go on hold for a while. Maybe it was time to invest some effort and energy in us, as a couple. Cassie and Jake, the friends who eventually discovered they couldn’t live apart and had found solace in each other’s arms—so everyone thought. For me, I’d just been biding my time.