Appetizers, Meals

Aromas drifted in from the kitchen, a portent of where the evening would soon be heading.

I sat in the living room with a near stranger while my bride prepped salads, starches, meats, dressings and sauces.

"What are you drinking," I asked in my friendliest voice.

The man, in his late fifties or early sixties, considered for a moment, then asked me what I was planning to drink: the perfect question from someone experienced at being a guest. I nodded approvingly.

"I believe bourbon."

I do believe bourbon, and I believe in bourbon. While it disarms hesitations and reluctance - as with all alcohols - it does it in the warmest, most comforting of ways, unlike the sprightly enthusiasm given by beer or even the acidic seduction provided by wine. There will be seduction; my bride will see to that. Our new friend will need to feel supported and warm, something the brown liquid provides with pleasure and confidence, pacing in its glass cage ready to strike when needed.

"Honey, do you have a moment to bring us a drink?" I asked as the room grew silent, one song fading out but the next not yet started.

"I can do that just now," she said, pacing around the corner.

My bride is in her early thirties, a decade younger than me. As she came into view I was struck - as I always am - by her contrasts - her red hair looking almost superheated against her milky skin, flecked often and effectively by reddish-brown freckles. Her lack of height betrayed by her generous proportions up top, her beauty - to me - was almost maddening. I could be soothed and warmed by her looks, but her obliviousness to her allure could without warning turn me sanguine, seething and ominous. In many ways that seemed to be what drew her to me.

Women with the Irish beauty, the auburn and alabaster, are clearly an acquired taste. Some men want nothing to do with them while others obsess and stalk, find their pleasures on websites devoted to the color, women dying their hair unconvincingly just to vie for that niche's attention and financing.

But that wasn't me. I'd had no specific interests in women of her makeup until I actually met her. But once I did I was fully taken, helping my bride initiate a quick and not-surprisingly bitter divorce from her husband, a person I couldn't blame for his profound sense of loss, which had to be magnified by the urgency of the decision. She and I met on a Tuesday, her bare skin touched my bedsheets less than two days later, legs spread with my face then thighs filling the space between them, and she moved in the very next day, piling boxes of clothes, books and pictures into my house, quickly mixing her things in with mine, us pausing to fuck every couple hours before I resumed removing pictures of her failed marriage from the more expensive frames while simply chucking the others while she pointedly placed her panties and thongs in a drawer next to my underwear and her favorite books straddling mine on bookshelves.

Now she was my wife, as she had been for most of this current decade. Her sundress, white with flecks patterned after what looked to be abstract pineapples, came down to her mid-thigh, her feet bare as they often were indoors. She prepared our drinks as we both allowed the music to fill the room and simply appreciated the grace of her form.

I didn't know if our new friend had a predilection for all redheads or if his attraction to my wife was also singular. But I did know he wanted her. I knew it because she told me.

The information actually came from her boss, who risked a Human Resources flogging by telling her about his friend who found her attractive. My guess is he did this for the most obvious of reasons: he wanted to fuck her and that was the least risky way to engage her in a conversation that would allow him to discuss with her the abstract idea of her having someone on her, in her. Luckily, he passed along his friend's name, a name I was minorly familiar with: he was a member of the same country club we are.

My beautiful princess finished pouring the drinks, tossing a slight amount of water in mine (as I prefer) while bringing him his neat. She welcomed both of our thanks and quickly spun to return to the kitchen.

It was a few weeks after her boss told her about his friend that I saw the friend at a club social event I made it a point to introduce myself, share a drink. He was quite wealthy, quite married and quite interested in talking to me more after I pointed out my bride to him as she stood with her friends, sipping water while they gulped gin, discussing the merits of the newer crop of Kardashian women. When he mentioned a vacation his wife was taking soon, I offered to have him come over one night during so he could have at least one home-cooked meal while she and her friends stalked Dubai. He was more than eager to accept. I enjoyed imagining her boss's reaction when his friend told him of his upcoming invitation. I picture his face pressed up against invisible but very real - and potentially very sharp - glass.

And so here he sat, eager to eat food my wife was preparing, watch her talk, watch her chew, watch her swallow. Watch her lips on a nice glass, cool liquid moving inside her mouth and onto her tongue then disappearing.

But first we had to wait for the food to be ready, the bourbon to provide more virtue. He took another sip of his. We discussed our lines of work, then our experiences at the club.

"I enjoy it there," he said. "It's nice to have someplace to spend time at that's not home, but isn't so...public."

I nodded as he continued.

"It's a nice place with mostly nice people."

I leaned forward in my chair towards him as he sat in the center of our white sofa, a conspirational look on my face.

"Plus, the scenery can be pretty impressive at times."

He smiled, glancing quickly towards the kitchen then back at me.

"Some of those wives at the pool. And some of the daughters."

He was right. Country clubs are something of a trophy in themselves, so it's not surprising to see flocks of trophy wives moving through the property, revealing and tanning themselves in the chicest bathing suits they can find by the pool. Attractive women often birth daughters who grow into attractiveness, too, and during summers they return from college to brown themselves around the pool, sunglasses on, earphones in, face down in a magazine or phone, silently auditioning for the next group of members who'll shed their current wives soon enough.

I named a few of the standouts currently showing up often at club events and we discussed their merits and drawbacks in hushed voices, his sincere while mine was low in volume only to continue that part of the charade. She knew my opinions on most all of the women she knows. Which ones I'd fuck. Which ones she'd come home to find in our bed, iPhones on the floor with their college boyfriends texting hearts and smiley faces wearing RayBans.

He asked me if I'd heard about one specific woman, one ostensibly married to a heart surgeon but seemingly - and magnificently - devoid of having a heart herself, having bedded several of her husband's golfing buddies behind his adoring but slightly bent back. I said I had, but he had more.

"They are saying she got caught fucking the head chef," he said, eyes alive with mirth. "He was eating her out on the kitchen floor."

I laughed. "Well, he does have a refined palate."

"Apparently he does," laughed my new friend, again eyeing the kitchen to make sure we weren't being heard. I leaned closer, swirled my bourbon in its glass, careful not to let the chestnut waves crest the rim.

"I can't fault anyone for eating her out," I leaned back in my chair and took a sip. "Man I do love eating pussy."

In an even lower voice, he agreed. "Me too."

I leaned up again, looking side-eyed at the kitchen before focusing back on him.

"My wife tastes amazing."

Thrown off his game, he took a big drink, three times as big as any previous sip. His voice came out hoarse from the rusted burn or just from general lust.

"You are a lucky man," he said, then averted his eyes, looking at the football game playing silently on the television then taking another deep drink, almost emptying out his glass.

"Honey, could you please refresh our drinks?" I asked.

"Sure," she said, and the sounds of cutlery clanking on the counter quickly followed before being replaced by the sounds of her feet first on the tile, then on the dining room hardwood and finally on the living room rug. I gazed at a clump of freckles on her right calf, wondered how many times my tongue had been there.

He leered over at me, that annoying "between us boys" smile that men think women don't pick up on, but always do. I mimicked it back to him. My bride took his glass then mine and glided to the bar, her hair picking up some of the overhead light as she walked under it.

"Could I have ice in mine this time," he suddenly asked. He did look warm.

We both watched the football game as a running back avoided several tackles, stayed on his feet and picked up speed in the open field on his long run to the end zone. Another song faded and a new song came on, sinuous and somewhat ominous. My friend was handed his drink and offered a sincere thank you, then my bride stepped over to me, handing me mine.

"Thank you, beautiful," I said to her, lost in her eyes. She smiled and turned to head back to the kitchen with a spring in her step, her sundress energized at the hem.

"Honey, before you run off..."

She paused and turned.

"...could you please let him taste your pussy?"

His back arched upright and panic briefly flashed across his face. He looked to me as if I'd betrayed him, not given him a priceless gift as I had. She shrugged her shoulders.

"Sure," she chirped sunnily as she walked over and stood before him.

He sat on the sofa and gazed up at her as she looked down. Her hands when to the sides of her sundress and slowly started hitching it up. Her lime green lace thong soon revealed itself, puffs of red curled hair pressing underneath it.

...It came to me

Yeah it came to me...

"Would you help me with that," she asked. He looked back over to me. I took another sip of my drink, waved him to do it.

He slowly reached up and put his fingers on the thin sections on her hips, then looked up at her again as he started to peel them down her thighs. As the thing slid below her vagina his eyes darted back to the red curls surrounding it.

Once the thong cleared her thighs she was able to move her legs in such a way that it dropped to the floor, her stepping out with one leg, then trying to push it underneath the couch with her other foot, staying balanced while still holding her dress up above her auburn and pink treasure.

...I was wrong and I heard you right...

He looked over at me again. I smiled and waved him forward, a host offering him an amuse-bouche, unforgettable and salty-sweet.

He looked back up at her and her fantastic smile.

...I was wrong and I heard you right...

He looked straight ahead as she placed one hand on the back of his head, guiding him to her lower lips while holding her dress just below her waistline.

I took another sip of bourbon as his nose pressed against her, curls of her hair no doubt tickling his nose and his tongue moved out of her mouth, parting her labia.

...I was wrong and I heard yes I heard yes I heard yes I heard you right...

His tongue swept down, then up, seeking her clitoris and when he found it her head tossed back. Her eyes would have been watching the ceiling had they not been so tightly closed. I made a mental note of her loss of composure, something I'd address later.

After about five seconds I cleared my throat and her hands gently guided him back out of her, back into a sitting position as her dress fell back down, returning her to some level of modesty.

"Thank you," he said.

"Sure," she shrugged again, then turned and almost skipped back to the kitchen, making sure to smile at me as she headed out.

I gestured for him to pick his drink back up off the coffee table, leaned back and swirled the glass again, then looked at him.

"Told you," I said. He looked at me, still confused. I looked at the television, leaned up excitedly, pointing.

"He's gone again!" I said as the same running back barreled to another touchdown.

...It came to me...

----------

My bride's panties lay under the couch for the rest of the night, right where she kicked them. He eyed them - the smallest part of the thing sticking out from under there, the part she couldn't quite get kicked completely under - he eyed them every time he leaned up to set his drink on the coffee table. He eyed them from the dining room from time to time as the three of us ate, his eyes glancing to the spot where he sat. Starting to wonder if that really even happened.

It had. I'd let him lick my beauty's pussy for a few seconds, generously sharing a few of her juices, tart and savory. A perfect appetizer for the meal she'd put together. If he noticed that my steak was bigger than his he didn't let on. He needed to have a lighter meal. I could eat what I wanted; it takes little energy to sit and I wouldn't need to be active until hours after he left, hours after she was allowed off the floor. But that was later.

She ate salad.

The discussion at dinner stayed benign. Truth is we barely knew each other. As I mentioned, I only used our dim connection at a local country club as a pretext for this dinner, one he gladly embraced due to his lust for my wife. Just cocky enough to confess it to her boss, someone who wasn't a member of the club, probably not the member of any club, wouldn't likely ever be. But no doubt her boss also lusted her - who didn't, with that shocking red hair, enticing freckles, compact but extremely shapely body and those eyes that somehow betrayed deep trust and dark thoughts simultaneously. I loved her more than anything I'd ever known in my life, spending years wondering what other people felt when they talked about love only to have her land in my life and burrow into a place inside me. She'd never get out, either. She knew it and I knew it. Our fates had been sealed a long time ago.

That chemical bond is what allowed me - really forced me - to share her. Like owning a hovering gleaming of raw energy, I couldn't only use the light or feel the warmth myself. No matter what happened, I'd always own it. Benevolence seemed the only option. But make no mistake; I had cruelty in mind as well. Give them a little. Make them know what they are missing. What I have that they'll never own because only I can own it. Only I will ever own it.

We sipped wine after dinner, banal conversation continuing. Steered away from politics (she hated Trumpian semen inside her, on her breasts, in her mouth.) Sports bored her, not that I really cared. She liked movies, but he didn't really have much to say about the stars of the upcoming sequels.

At the same time there was a magic to drawing him through it. The casual homogenized conversation just enthusiastic and vanilla enough to put a doubt in his mind. Had it really happened? Had his tongue really been on her clitoris, her hands on the back of his head, gently guiding him? For what, four maybe five seconds? Had he felt the warmth of her stomach pull away from his forehead as she inhaled when he hit a certain spot? Or had it been a brief daydream? A new fantasy he'd invented as he watched her move in her summer dress. Only his glances to confirm the panties still peeked out from the couch kept him more or less sure he'd been there.

As we moved past an hour of post-dinner conversation, my most valuable possession yawned and stood.

"I don't want to break this up, but I'm getting a little tired," she volunteered, as if the thought only just came to her. My love is a brilliant actress.

He seemed somewhat crestfallen. His willingness to hang in this conversation was mostly fueled by his desire to remain present in front of her. Have her hear him. In his mind his stories of boat maintenance, rightly-timed stock purchases and sales and gossip about club board members was fascinating her, impressing her. He couldn't have known her less. To be fair outside of me no one really did.

"I'm getting ready for bed," she said, her eyes then widening and looking directly at him, "but don't run off on my account. I know you boys are having fun and I know the other game is apparently coming on. Plus I'll be back out to say goodnight."

The key line. He's going nowhere now.

She headed upstairs to the bedroom, and the amount of wine in his bloodstream allowed him to watch her make her walk with little or no concern that he might be gazing a little too long.

We moved back to our respective chairs, him choosing to sit exactly where he had been, the corner of the thong now between his feet, an inch or two between each heel. I heard water running upstairs.

The game started, he worked hard to keep up the conversation, looking for something conspirational, something to rejuvenate that comradery we'd shared hours before, something that in his mind had led to the brief white light of an interaction he was holding onto, waves of first wine, and now bourbon washing over it, making it tougher to see, tougher to hold focus on. Especially when describing the various physical attributes of wives of the club members I barely knew. Or would even notice. I had my beauty.

His description of the ass of a teenager who worked the pool last summer trailed off as my love began to descend the stairs, barefoot with a white robe on. Her legs alternated flashing out of the robe then disappearing back in as she took each step down, spending just maybe a second on each step, pale skin in the sepia light, alternating left right left right left right...

The white robe had the effect of making her amazing hair and eyes more striking. The freckles on her face, shoulders and neck more noticeable. I congratulated myself on that purchase. Both purchases, actually, if you counted her. Then again, do you have to purchase what you've always owned? Our expensive house and choice of cars said yes, but there's no surety that she wouldn't still be mine in a subsidized apartment. The only difference would be we'd be less choosy about who spent nights like this in our abode, and that they'd most assuredly be leaving us cash at the end.

"Okay, boys. I'm going to go read and nod off," she smiled. She stood before him and extended her hand. Although she probably wanted him to shake it, he gently kissed the back of it, his eyes glancing at her feet before coming back up to her gaze.

"Thank you for a fantastic meal," he said, a hint of sadness in his voice as the highlight of his night moved over to her husband.

I remained sitting but took her by the hips as she bent over to kiss me, her hand clutching the top of her robe in order to keep it from gapping. I could practically feel the draft of disappointment emanating from him at her sudden modesty, considering what he was pretty sure happened two wine bottles and two bourbons ago.

Our kiss was purposely longer than generally considered appropriate at social functions, probably more so in front of an unescorted casual acquaintance. Our tongue tips briefly slid across each other as I pushed between her lips for a gentle second, and then quickly retreated. I truly cannot help myself.

She repeated her salutations and started for the stairs, then turned around. She pointed at the floor between his legs.

"I seem to have left something on the floor," she said, walking towards him. "Could you..."

He blushed. Actually blushed. A man who had put his tongue inside my wife earlier in the night was suddenly blushing to pick up her thong? Or was he somehow hoping to sneak them into a pocket later in the night? Take them home, rub them on him, breathe through them, come into them? I made a mental note to send him home with them as a souvenir. Afterwards.