Sally. Freya North

of scent seduced her nose. Coffee-booze-chocolate. She looked across at Richard, waiting in anticipation. She smiled, giving a fleeting twitch of eyebrow. Still holding his gaze, she slowly pushed the loaded spoon into her mouth. It was like a trigger, a chemical reaction: her eyes snapped shut and simultaneously Richard grinned broadly. The first thing to accost her was the bitterness of the cocoa, thick and dry against the roof of her mouth. In an instant, the cool fluff of marscapone filtered through, wetting the powder which metamorphosed into a subtle and heavenly chocolaty sludge. The texture and taste were heady and incomparable. Then the marsala and rum, sodden in the sponge, broke through and created a warmth that trickled down into her chest. Finally, a kick from the espresso forced her eyes open and her head to shake slowly in astonishment. It was the signal for Richard to have his spoonful. For Sally, tiramisù was more than a ‘pick me up’, she was literally stoned on the stuff.

      An orgasm versus a first taste of tiramisù. A tough choice if ever there was one! Both, please!

      Later, Sally, later. There’s still one more thing for you to try.

      After Sally’s second helping (Richard was delighted – he could not abide the Abstemious Woman), he poured her a full and very chilled glass of Beaumes de Venise. Again he watched. First Sally cleaned her teeth with her tongue, searching for any hidden cocoa. Somewhat dismayed, she found nothing. She raised the glass, now aesthetically bloomed with condensation, and took note of the golden blush colour and the sweet, floral smell. Bouquet, Sally, bouquet. She took a sip. It was liquid silk. It was cold, clean and exquisite. If ambrosia is tiramisù, and she suspected it very probably was, then Beaumes de Venise was nectar. The food, the drink of the gods.

      Sally’s eyes wore a glazed expression. She looked across to Richard who looked soft and mellow under the wine and the dimmed lights. She was having a thoroughly good time. Never had she been so overwhelmed by such different taste sensations. Never had she simply enjoyed food so much. Now she knew for sure that aphrodisiacs existed.

      Clever boy, Richard, you’ve seduced her with food, she’s now ready, waiting and willing for part two of the evening’s schedule. Physical pleasure.

      Up you get, walk across and stand behind her chair. Scoop her hair up into a pony tail, tilt her head back slightly. Release her hair and let your hands fall on to her neck. It’s delicate, you notice how vulnerable it feels, encircled entirely by your overlapping hands. Venture down and let your finger tips rest on her collar bone. Stroke that soft dip at her throat. Take one hand away and palm back the hair from her forehead. Gaze into those eyes, keep the gaze and move your other hand from her neck down across the silk of her shirt. You are between her breasts now. Find her left breast, cup it, press it, squeeze it. Let your hand lie soft, feeling her pip-like nipple in your palm. The touch of silk, the warmth and firmness of the flesh beneath.

      Pull her to her feet and grasp her close to you. Keep the one hand holding her neck, put the other into the small of her back and pull her tightly against you. Press yourself against her; feel yourself hard, straining. Move your leg across and push her legs slightly apart. Now she too had something to push against. Lower your hand and feel her buttocks tense, you remember perfectly what they look like.

       A gorgeous peach of an arse.

      To feel its curve under velvet is as alluring as a breast under silk. But flesh itself is better. Her flesh is what you want.

      Kiss her. Don’t open your mouth, just press your lips against hers. Her tongue fleets at your lips. You respond. As the kisses become longer and deeper, you both push and grind your groins against each other. You feel like eating her. Nibbling at her lips does not suffice. Push her mouth open wide, as wide as it will go and probe as deep as you can. Feel her search back. Feel her run her tongue over the inside of your teeth. Bite her. Feel her simultaneously flinch yet move even closer and more insistently against you. Bite her again and feel her bite back. You are aware that her hand is starting to travel down. Away from your earlobe, down, down.

       Lower, Sally, lower. Find me hard, rub your hand against me. Trace the shape of me. No don’t take your hand away. Don’t pull away from my lips. I want you. Where have you gone?

      The CD had long stopped but the silence was loaded. Richard and Sally stood there, panting, mouths reddened, feet apart, a foot apart. Sally reached out and pulled Richard towards her by grasping the front of his trousers. Again they ate-kissed. Again they separated. Again at her instigation. He stepped towards her and she stepped back. He stepped towards her and again she retreated. The two were tangoing. Then he was ready. He took two steps forward to her one back and had her again, close to him, squeezing her waist with one arm, the other enmeshed in her hair. She gasped as her hair snagged around his fingers. She tried to tug away but he simply tightened his grip. To hear her breath, rasping, sent him into a fast frenzy of desire. He held her at arms’ length as she tried to approach. Now he pushed her away.

      Once more they stared, like matador and bull. Slowly he came to her and slid his hand up her skirt. It was tight but she helped by standing on her tiptoes. He wriggled upwards, effortlessly, to bullseye position. Sally lowered her heels back down. He could feel how moist she was under her panties and, with his thumb and third finger, tweaked and pressed superlatively.

      Spot on, Richard.

      Still they stared relentlessly into each other’s eyes while Richard’s skilful fingers set to work.

       Look at her face, glazed eyes as if she does not see me though she looks right at me. Let me rub you right there. Let me go a little further. Look at your eyelids flicker. Look at your head tilt slightly back exposing your neck which I must graze with my teeth. Let me undo your blouse.

      Deftly, Richard unbuttoned just enough of Sally’s blouse to expose an exquisite breast. He ceased movement with his other hand though Sally pushed herself against it eagerly.

       Look at me, Richard. Never have you desired a woman so much as you yearn for me this very moment. Feel me, move your hand from my arm but don’t leave my gaze. Feel the breast that you’ve released from its shield of olive silk. Feel it. Yes, just like that. Increase the pressure. Again. Oh.

      Richard introduced his finger tips and twisted Sally’s nipple gently. He felt her move against his other hand and he made his fingers there come suddenly alive. Probing, twisting, rubbing. He looked at Sally’s face. Her head was now involuntarily thrown backwards and to one side; it enticed him to suck at her neck, to fondle her breast firmly, to increase the speed of his fingers below. He felt her rocking her pelvis faster and faster. A surge of moistness. She let out a noise midway between a yelp and a gasp and brought her head back straight, once again meeting his eye directly. They stared into each other as they both felt the pulsations ebb away and stop. After a moment’s stillness, Richard probed again, stroking with dexterous mastery. The throbs returned, less defined but certainly there. Sally’s face had begun to soften. Her eyelids closed more frequently and for longer. Her head dropped slightly. To both of them, her body seemed to be melting.

      Richard drew Sally towards him and cradled her carefully, holding her still and steady and close for minutes. Her head was buried against his chest, her shoulders were slumped, her exposed breast was now blushed, the nipple soft and puffy. She stayed against him feeling safe with the smell of him; sweat and pheromones filling her nose, his taste still in her mouth. He kissed the top of her head. She looked up and kissed him on the lips while he kept them motionless. With a hand on her shoulder and another around her waist, he led her to his bedroom and, on the bed with the fresh, crisp linen, he made slow and languid love to her.

      EIGHT

      Was it a chip in the paintwork or was it a spider?

      Sally had been staring at the small, dark mark on the ceiling, trying to make up her mind. In that state of reverie, when eyes are young and focusing is lazy, she had been sure, alternately, that it was the one and then the other. Now that her eyes were awake and functioning she decided that it must be a mark or a dent.

      And then it moved.

      It