dinner for rey
Well, that first night. Allison was equal parts distraught and gripped by the most potent lust she had ever experienced in her life. I don’t know if you’ll understand the thrill of looking into someone’s eyes and seeing their radical desire for your whole being. But I know what your gaze did to her.
That first night. You caught her animal kiss and devoured her resistance. She was swept upstairs and all I can say is it’s a good job I’d cooked because with the noises you two were making I could tell you were half in frenzy.
A little about Allison. She’s your height exactly: 5'9", and has the most amazing absence of backside. As if to apologise, the gods have granted her a miraculous bosom. I believe you approve? Certainly you lavished her breasts with attention on that first day we brought her home. She has strawberry blonde hair and her lips are perennially quirked up in that little fox-like grin some people have.
I promise I tried to give you both your privacy but you did not make it easy. How, exactly, did you make her scream? What caused that scream to cut off so precipitously? Of words, I only heard snippets. Her saying, “yes. Yes. Before I come to my senses.” You, later, barely holding back the bloodlust: “do not flinch or I’ll just tear out your throat.”
I think she brings out the lioness in you.
Hours later, when she wandered downstairs swamped by one of your tops, pale but smiling broadly, she kissed me on the cheek. I showed her where all the hot chocolate materiel is and how you like yours. We barely spoke. Both of us had chosen to venture into your bed, and both of us had lasted the night. We understood volumes about one another.
The next morning, over breakfast, Allison’s eyes are wide as she contemplates the stack of pancakes in front of you. With a glint in my eye I suggest we cook for you together. Make you something special. She demurs, claims not to be a good cook, and I tell her with quiet certainty that this will not be a problem.
Presumably Allison is a productive, sensible, intelligent human being. But whenever she’s in your presence she becomes giddy as a jackdaw. As we roll through the living room clutching bags of groceries she blushes and hides her face in an Asda Bag for Life. I think you like the attention, for now.
Something of that giddiness persists for the hours we spend cooking. You hear us talking excitedly. At first I’m the boss, setting down the plan for cooking and instructing her in her part of preparing your meal. But she keeps making jokes—“look! Look! Look! I’m Madonna!” for some reason has me in stitches—and she calls beef “beep” and before you know it we’re like two schoolchildren in there, laughing and giggling. You smirk in the living room and leave us to it.
We don’t leave you alone, though. When timings permit, one or both of us might poke our head around the door and come hang out with you. A tableau: at one point she is snuggled between your legs and I’m nestled against your flank, all of us watching the screen as you absolutely Muller me at Mario Kart. She’s in her own little world, stroking her cheek on your thigh. You run your fingers through her reddish hair in between bouts.
Oriental flavours spring out of the kitchen: ginger, sesame, a baseline of soy. Frying. An ungodly amount of frying seems to be happening.
And at one point you overhear a fragment of our conversation.
“—sure you don’t want to serve a main first?”
“No. I want her mouth to water at the sight of me.”
“It will anyway, I promise you that. … You know that if she decides to take you, that’s it, right?”
A silence must mark some sign of assent.
“This isn’t a game, Allison. You could die tonight.”
“Of course it’s a game. It’s the best one out there! I’m not afraid to lose.”
“Okay, then. You’re the first course.”
Your tummy rumbles at the thought. You paw at its doughy covering, the gift you have given yourself, taken from countless people. You can feel her inside there now. The way her head would track just beneath your ribs. The way her hands would tickle your stomach lining, just like butterflies.
Dinner can’t come soon enough.
I come to you with a ceramic flask and matching cup on a tray. These I retain while presenting you with a deep bow. “May I please beg of you the exclusive use of this living room as we prepare for your meal? Plum wine will be served upstairs.”
“You two are idiots,” you say with a smirk. I grin back at you. “You know that right?”
“Just as Mistress says. The living room?”
“I’m going, I’m going.” You push yourself to your feet and take the tray from me. “Though don’t take long. I’m starving.”
Another bow, then I’m striding to the kitchen, as you climb the stairs.
“We are ready for you.”
The lighting as you descend the staircase is pleasingly muted. Soft Japanese classical music plays in the background. The artificial fireplace is switched on, shedding cheery orange light.
This light joins and augments candlelight. All together it illuminates the curves and valleys of your platter to great advantage.
Upon the dining room table that has been moved to the centre of the room, Allison lies naked on her back. Eyes straight up, she bears many small dishes upon her person, each prepared for you. On her stomach lies a narrow slate, on which are slices of what looks like marinated beef dressed with a glossy, dark sauce. Her shoulders carry circular plates of fried gyoza, the source of the ginger scent. Folded cloths protect her from the preheated plates and help them sit flat on her physiology.
It’s not just that. Between her breasts: glazed spare ribs, begging to crack and yield to your teeth. On one hip, a sliced chicken katsu cutlet; on the other, teriyaki beef, also sliced. More dumplings grace her thighs, glistening in the candlelight. You long to bite into one, and the same is true of her thighs.
Between her parted legs, a large bowl of steaming rice sits a respectful distance from her pussy. Between her teeth, chopsticks for your use. To her right, an empty bowl you may use, should you wish. And to her left, as you watch and as I look into your eyes, I set down a long, very sharp-looking knife. Everything cooked is pre-sliced. The only food that could possibly require the knife is Allison herself.
“Should you require it,” I explain, and return to a little coffee table on which more gyoza is frying on a camp stove.
Allison lies still. I gesture welcome.
“Dinner is served.”