Happy Christmas to all, and fabulous, fun, filthy feasting to everyone!
Welcome to day TWO of the Filthy Foodie Frolic and Giveaway. A big part of the holiday season is food and feasting. A big part of any celebration is food and feasting and the eating and the preparing of food often finds its way into story. My stories are no exception. Raymond and I associate time spent together in the kitchen cooking with dating. We met, dated and married in the former Yugoslavia and a lot of our dating time was spent over preparing meals. We’ve never lost that association of meals prepared together with romance and dating. Our Christmas feast is even more special because it involves a melding of Raymond’s Southern upbringing and my upbringing in the Rocky Mountains, with a few British treats we’ve grown to love and appreciate in our time in the UK.
Though I’ve never written any seasonal erotica, as I think about the days leading up to Christmas and New Year, I can’t help thinking about all the feasting and celebrating that goes on during that time and how often, in romance, erotica, in story in general, scenes take place with the sharing of a meal. With that in mind, I’d like to share some filthy feasting from my stories with you for the holiday season, along with a giveaway for each new foodie frolic.
Since this is Christmas Day, there’ll be a special giveaway today, something a little more romantic, but with no sortage of heat. My counterpart, Grace Marshall, is in charge of the giveaway today, and she’s offering a PDF of her novel, An Executive Decision. Here’s all you have to do for your chance to win:
Leave a comment about one of your favourite foodie memories. It doesn’t have to be sexy, but it can be. The winner for the second Filthy Foodie Frolic will receive a PDF of Grace’s novel An Executive Decision.
And today’s Filthy Foodie Frolic is from my short story, Encounter at Eddie’s All-Night Diner, from Best Women’s Erotica 2012.
‘Encounter At Eddie’s All-night Diner’
Eddie’s All-night Diner may not be in the Michelin guides, but when a voyeuristic, self-proclaimed “food intuitive” meets the king of the carnivores – a man who enjoys food he can get messy with — intuition is out the plate-glass window and messy, saucy, dripping lust is the main course.
“May I share your table?”
I jump at the unexpected intrusion, and jerk my guilty peripherals away from the couple.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, are you alright?” The voice is a resonant baritone that I could easily curl up and purr in.
“Fine,” I say, and I find myself looking up, and up, and up at a mountain of a man. Not fat, mind you – far from it. He’s well proportioned and displayed in a muscle shirt stretched over – well — big muscles, tight muscles, muscles that set everything beneath my skirt aquiver. He carries a rolled-up newspaper tucked under his arm. He wears loose fitting summer shorts that come just to his knees and a pair of Birkenstocks the size of small cruise ships. I have never seen feet so big. I know it’s cliché, but I can’t help wondering just how well proportioned he really is. I nod to the other side of my booth, and offer a polite smile. There are other tables available. But it doesn’t matter. I’m intrigued by the size of his Birkenstocks.
His long legs jostle mine as he sits down, offering an embarrassed apology. My stomach does a pirouette. The brush of flesh against flesh is something I’m quite familiar with here at Eddie’s, but I’ve never actually felt it myself. I pretend to find my place in the copy of Anna Karenina I’ve been bringing with me for the past month, then I pretend to lose myself in the story. He opens the menu flat on the table and leans over it, one thick finger following down the list of entrees. He’s leaned over the table so far that he’s practically engulfing it. Just a little sniff and I catch the scent of high summer and man-heat in his hair, and I feel ripples low in my belly.
“What’ll you have?”
I start at the sound of the waitress’s bored voice.
“I’ll have the ribs,” he says.
The combine stare of my table companion and the waitress is my clue that the little whimper I thought was only mental has actually made its way past my lips and out into the public domain.
“Sorry,” I say nodding down to the open pages of my novel. “Very moving.”
He gives me a look that might be sympathetic. The waitress only shoves her pad in her apron and strides back to the counter with the man’s order. The order for ribs.
Nothing is more revealing about a person than the way he eats ribs. I would never touch them. I’d just feel too vulnerable. The man with the huge Birkenstocks is going to sit right here in front of the queen of food intuition and expose himself.
I can’t believe my luck.
But then it hits me. I’m not watching him safely from a corner somewhere. How stealthy can I be when the man is practically sitting on my lap?
He pushes aside the menu, opens his paper flat on the table and starts to read like it’s no big deal.
There are tables full of people all around us. They’re all eating and drinking and exposing themselves to me, but suddenly all I notice is the man sitting across from me, occasionally brushing my knee with his.
My crème brulee arrives and I stare down at it, suddenly too timid to crack the burnt sugar shell and wriggle my spoon down through the smooth creaminess to the tart, plump raspberries at the bottom.
“Looks good,” he says, smiling up at me.
Just then his ribs arrive — a mountain of ribs, slathered in rich, savory barbeque sauce, steam rising in little swirls like a bevy of miniature dancing girls wafting their way upward. The waitress slaps down a couple of extra napkins and a plate for the bones and leaves us to it.
When she’s gone I force a smile. “Those look good too.” My voice sounds breathless and thin, like it’s gone off to chase after the rib-scented dancing girls.
“I love ribs,” he says. “I love food I can eat with my fingers, food it’s alright to be messy with.”
I barely manage to suppress another whimper, and my pussy suddenly feels as sticky as the ribs.
“Bon apetit,” he says, nodding to my crème brulee.
“Bon apetit,” I manage to rasp.
He lifts the biggest, thickest, most succulent rib to his lips, one sopping with barbeque sauce and dripping with juice. Then he bites into the steamy meaty side of it, his gaze never leaving mine. I give the burnt sugar shell of my crème brulee a sharp rap with my spoon, unable to take my eyes of the catlike way his tongue slakes up the bone, the way his teeth peel back the meat, the way the juice drips down his fingers and his chin, all so unselfconsciously done, all so deliciously carnivorous. A meat-eater through and through, a primal force to be reckoned with. My god, he’s magnificent!
As he tosses the spent bone onto the extra plate and lifts a second rib to his lips, I mirror his actions with my first spoonful of crème brulee, rich and velvety with just the tip of a single raspberry peaking out from under the crème like a tart, pink nipple. He laps the droplets of meat juice and sauce from the end of the rib just before it can drip onto the table, catching the dribble that slides down his chin on the end of his finger, which he shoves into his mouth, licking and sucking all the way to his knuckle.
I gasp, and he raises a questioning eyebrow.
“Good. It’s good,” I force my breathless voice around a creamy mouthful.
He nods his agreement with a juicy smile and a flutter of dark lashes.
I eat my dessert in big, lusty bites, swallowing down the texture of cream and the tang of raspberry overlaid by the bite of burnt sugar. He’s like a lion at the kill. I half expect him to snarl as he rips the meat from the bone. Just when I’m beginning to suspect, that for him, the pleasure of meat is a total body experience, I realize he’s watching me watch him eat. He’s watching me rock and shift against the naugahide seat with the ecstatic pleasure of the over-all experience.
I freeze. A flash of heat rises to my face like the air conditioner is suddenly blowing hot air. Carefully, I lay down my spoon and wipe the corners of my mouth demurely.
He offers a lazy smile, tosses aside another bone and wipes his mouth, before lowering the napkin back into his lap. “You enjoy food, don’t you?”
I blush harder. “I might say the same about you.”
His smile expands to a soft chuckle. “You can learn so much about people by watching them eat. Don’t you agree?”
My stomach summersaults. Has he read my mind? I’ve always thought watching people eat was almost like reading their mind, but I thought that was my little secret. And granted the choice of the crème brulee was a bit flashy on my part, but I never imagined someone would actually watch me eat.
His knee, which has been resting lightly against the outside of mine shifts and maneuvers until it’s positioned between my legs, and I catch my breath with the delicious impropriety of it. But he just continues eating like it’s no big deal. He’s gnawing and slurping and licking and all the while his knee is gently rubbing against the inside of mine.
I’m in the middle of a luscious creamy mouthful when I feel his leg withdraw. Then he shifts slightly in the booth without missing a beat in his efficient devouring of ribs, and before I know it, his knee has been replaced by his warm, bare foot. It snakes its way up the inside of my thigh, pushing and scrunching my skirt ahead of it as it goes. He seems to be completely focused on his ribs, nipping and ripping and making yummy little animal sounds, almost as though he’s completely unaware of what his very naughty foot is doing under the table.
I’m a captive audience. And after all this time, all my observations and fantasies at Eddie’s All-night Diner come home to roost, right between my legs. Under the table I rearrange my skirt and shift my bottom, opening my legs a little wider until I’m sure the approach is clear, all the while eating crème brulee like it’s nobody’s business.
He makes circular motions high on the inside of my thigh with long, expressive toes. I’m glad the noisy clatter of dishes and the babble of a full house cover my involuntary gasps and sighs. Here I am acting like one of them, one of those people I quietly and smugly observe night in, night out. But I forget all about that when the ball of his foot presses against my mons, caressing my tightly trimmed curls, gently tap-tap-tapping against my pubic bone. And all the while he’s chomping and gnawing like king carnivore himself come to feast.
I run my tongue over the bottom of the spoon, slurping back a mouthful of brulee goodness, and I imagine doing the same to his cock. I wonder just how much of it I could fit into my mouth. Surely he must be hard and uncomfortable. Surely he must be aching for some relief. He shifts against the booth and grunts softly, almost as though he’s read my thoughts again. Then his big toe dips to circle my clit, and I practically bounce off the seat, barley managing to collect myself as the waitress comes by to refill our water glasses. A little more maneuvering and he’s tweaking me between his big toe and the second toe. It’s almost like he’s got a third set of fingers under the table fiddling between my legs like they know their way around the place.
I can’t reach his cock. My legs aren’t long enough. I’ll have to rely on visual stimulation. With the hand not shoveling dessert into my mouth, I reach up under my blouse and play with my tits. They feel so stretched and heavy, like they’re trying to get to him. I pinch my nipples until they’re as big as the raspberries in my crème brulee, and he watches like he has x-ray vision. The toe dance intensifies and his Schwarzenegger pecs rise and fall as though eating ribs has suddenly become hard labor.
I shamelessly undo the front of my blouse, watching his eyes get bigger and bigger with each button. And when the waitress’s back is turned and I’m pretty sure no one’s looking, I let the blouse gape open. I knead and cup and pinch until I can see his pulse hammering against his temples, and his chest is heaving so hard I fear he’ll rip the seams out of the muscle shirt like he’s the Incredible Hulk.
He shifts and maneuvers, and with a tight, sharp thrust, suddenly his big toe pushes into my grudging pussy, and goddamned if it isn’t almost as big as the average cock! Or at least that’s how if feels all thrust up inside me.
“Messy business, ribs,” I rasp. My pussy clenches tight around his toe and I wince as he slips in a second. “So juicy.” I force the words between gritted teeth.
“I told you, I like messy food.” He finds his rhythm. It’s a subtle rhythm, a rhythm no one else notices, though I’d like to think I would have noticed if it had been happening to someone else. The tight rocking and straining of his hips convinces me that I may not be the only one skilled in the art of stealth orgasms. With amazing finesse, he eases yet another toe into my dilating pout, and I’m suddenly so full, I feel like I’ll split in two. But I just keep pressing harder and harder onto him because I can’t help myself, because I’ve never been foot-fucked before, and because he’s just so damned, deliciously huge! I can feel the connection between our bodies, I can feel the shifting of his weight from one buttock to the other, and I’m sure I can almost hear the slurping of my wet cunt grasping at his toes, hungrily sucking in every bit of him until there’s absolutely no room for more.
He stops eating ribs. I stop eating crème brulee. His face is red, and I’m sure mine is too. I’m grinding against him like I’m riding a big horse. and his muscles go so tight I fear he’ll strain something, and God what I wouldn’t give for a peek under the table.
The tightly swallowed yelp is mine as my pussy convulses and I feel the orgasm exploding all the way up through the crown of my head. The groan wrapped in baritone silk is his. His face scrunches briefly, and he inhales sharply like he’s in pain, then I feel something warm and sticky against my knee and the top of my bare thigh.
We both sit stunned as the waitress approaches to refill our coffee cups. “I think I’ll need a few more napkins,” he says sweetly to the woman. He doesn’t sound at all like someone who’s just shot his load under the table on the bare thigh of a stranger in an all-night diner.
From her apron pocket, the waitress hurriedly slaps down enough napkins to paper the walls of the ladies room and trots off to wait on a party of eight two tables down.
When he’s sure she’s gone, he takes several napkins from the stack and proceeds to wipe his cock like it’s no big deal. The man is actually wiping his cock under the table with half his foot still buried in my cunt. The very thought makes my pussy grasp and twitch again. Considerately he waits until I stop spasming before slowly, one at a time, he slips his toes out from between my pussy lips and offers a little nod of his head to the stack of napkins.
Blushing clear to the roots of my hair, I grab a handful and do my own stealth clean-up beneath the table, while he smiles down at me like I’m a well-behaved child.
The waitress clears the dishes and brings his check. I go back to pretending to read Anna Karenina. Once he’s paid, he grabs his newspaper and stands to go. But as he does so, he moves to my side of the booth, and I strain my neck to look up at him. “Thanks for sharing your table,” he says. Then he leans down to meet my gaze. “I hear next Friday night is surf and turf. The steak’s a little overcooked for my taste, but the prawns aren’t bad with a little tartar sauce.” Still holding my gaze, he guides my hand behind the shielding newspaper to rest against the crotch of his shorts, tracing my fingers along the very substantial geography of the cock beneath. As I gasp my admiration, he offers a knowing smile. “Thought you might like to know”
I give him a little squeeze. “I appreciate the tip,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He thanks the waitress, offers me a slight nod, then turns and walks out into the steamy night.