Read The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Marilyn Jaye Lewis for Free Online Page A

for his cocktail and scooted closer to us. He helped himself to a piece of fudge. He said, “What would we like for dinner tonight?”
    I was too busy feeding Paulina, and kissing her neck, kissing her across her collarbone, to answer him right away. I was on all fours, leaning down to her. Bertrand rested a hand on my rear end then let his hand roam all over my tight slacks. He said quietly, “I’m thinking ratatouille; something with something else, and then ratatouille on the side.”
    “But that’s a summer dish,” I said distractedly. “And it takes hours.”
    “We’ve got hours . . . haven’t we? Paulina, do you have to be anywhere?”
    By this time, Paulina and I were kissing, our lips pressed together, our tongues meeting. She moaned something guttural that sounded like “no”. Her reply reverberated in my mouth. The thought of having hours with her further excited me. I felt my way down between her legs while we kissed. Her legs were still parted, the lips down there still exposed – and they were slick. She was already aroused. I stopped kissing her and said softly, “Do you want to play with us in our kitchen?” Two of my fingers pushed into her hole and felt the tight, slippery walls push open to accept me. I wanted to pull her panties down, get them all the way off and out of my way. But she planted her feet on the rug and pushed her hole down hard on my fingers; she wanted to stay connected. She took my fingers past the knuckles; her canal was deep and it gave me so many ideas. “Yes,” she finally said, a little breathlessly. “Let’s play in your kitchen – whatever that entails.”
    We’re fond of the baby eggplant, Bertrand and I: its perfect shape, its deep purple colour; the substantial heft it has when one holds it in the palm of one’s hand. In the vegetable world, they are small works of art. Baby eggplants are always in our kitchen, along with every colour of bell pepper, and yellow squash, zucchini, onions, tomatoes, potatoes, garlic. We never run out of carrots, or celery, or cucumbers. In the spring and summer, there is no shortage of asparagus, green beans, or broccoli in our kitchen, or fresh fennel bulbs, chard, or leeks. And fresh herbs – we love herbs, and sea salt, both fine and coarse. We love peppercorns of every colour and, of course, olive oil.
    Bertrand dons his chef’s apron. It is pure cotton and bleached white. We are on to the wine now, a Font-Mars, for starters; it is deep red. The colour of it excites me when Bertrand pours it into our glasses. But it is not a wine to be hurried; in an hour or two, it will taste even more intoxicating than it would now. Since we have all evening, I concentrate instead on seducing Paulina out of her clothes, right there in our kitchen.
    “In front of all these windows?” She is disinclined to do it – at first; until she sees that we do have window shades. Enormous ones: the windows are tall and wide and comprise one entire kitchen wall. Bertrand, with his glass of Font-Mars in hand, tugs the cord that brings the shades gliding down. We are now completely alone in a city of so many millions.
    Bertrand is over his initial idea of preparing ratatouille. I have no idea, yet, what he has decided upon instead, but as Paulina steps out of her skirt and pulls her sweater off over her head, Bertrand prepares to concoct a simple
amuse-bouche
to have with our wine.
    Paulina’s bra matches her panties; it is the same ruby red silk with a black lace overlay. It pushes her ample breasts together, offers them up enticingly. She is stunning. Her dark hair frames her face angelically. Her dark eyes are quite large and expertly made up to appear as if she were wearing no make-up at all. I reach behind her to unclasp her bra, but I wait for the unveiling of her tits. I let her do that part by herself. I reach for my wine and I glance at Bertrand. I know how much he loves to see a woman’s tits spill out of a lacy bra. He’s eyeing Paulina