For Sonya and Damien

Love passes through the stomach.
-- Czech proverb


Desmond cut a slice of roasted venison, wrapped it in a dripping coat of thick plum sauce and with a slow, precise movement, pushed it towards Ethel’s waiting lips as they began the gastronomic foreplay of the evening. She gave a breathless sigh, eyes half-closed, tongue flicking out to retrieve an errant trace of sauce from her full, pouting lips. Swallowing, her eyes sprang open and met his hungry gaze, just asking for a slab of meat. Taking her fork, she reached past his sprawling left arm, allowing her little finger to trace a ditsy path along its ridge, before stabbing a morsel for his hungry maw, fuel for that engine of passion that would soon be consuming her body.

*

She let her mind wander, drifting back to the first night they had lain together, she exhausted and thrilled by an experience so wildly beyond anything she could have anticipated, he nervous, apologetic, poised as if waiting for a slap.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” he had stammered. “I didn’t mean it to… to spring it out like that.”
“Shhh,” she had lulled. “Everything is perfect.”
“It’s just that… when I’m with a woman that I… then it just happens.”
“I love it that it happened like this and I want to do it with you again… and again.”

*

Today he was no longer nervous. Rising from the couch where they had eaten, they kissed, their lips still sweet from the recently ravished crème brûlée cheesecake. Ethel leaned forward and whispered in his ear:
“Tonight, I want you to be the platter for my feast, darling.”
“It will be my greatest pleasure and delight to consume anything my dearest chef will serve,” he said.
They gyrated towards their love-nest, shedding surplus layers of clothing as they went. In a moment, Desmond lay looking up at her dark, expectant eyes, the delicate if modest curves of her sweet body and the smooth skin of her stomach that hid so much of the magic that made her a treasure above all others. Reaching out, he stroked her belly as she murmured:
“Shall we begin with the sweet, sweet dessert?”
“Oh yes! I lust for it,” he said, hands sliding up to her neck and shoulders, “but my hunger demands the main course follow promptly after with no delay.”
Ethel breathed in slow, heavy gasps, eyes closed as his fingers explored her neck and wandered through her hair. Desmond let the loose tips of his fingers trace a series of paths down the length of her face, and then latch onto her full, lower lip. She allowed him to pull her lips wide open, exposing the sensitive organs within. For a moment, he held her there, as a little saliva trickled down his finger; then he entered her. She trembled as he inserted a finger, slid it along the length of her tongue, and then thrust. The crash of sensations that rocked her shuddering body took hold of her and hurled the pent-up energy within her up and out onto her lover’s face. Desmond continued to thrust, as the sweet fire of Ethel’s afters burned at his nostrils and raged at his lips. More and more came out and, as he gasped for breath, mingled with his own, creating a fiery intimacy that demanded reciprocation. Unable to control himself any longer, he raised himself up and vomited full in her face, their bodily fluids clashing in a sensuous cocktail of heartfelt warmth and bile.
At last, with their energies spent, they collapsed exhausted and lay back on the loved-stained sheets, taking in the panorama of olfactory sensations. Ethel, her voice weak but happy, murmured:
“Darling, I think I gave you the starters, too.”