Express Lunch

7 min read

The house is his for a few days. His choice of food. His choice of music. His choice of company. The only day that fits is the day that his wife comes home. Fair enough. He cleans the house thoroughly. Not an unusual activity in his life. This time it is for him alone. And his guest. After all is in order, he selects the bindings. The lead for the wrists, the cuffs for the ankles. He sets the utensils aside.

There is time left. He sits at the piano and plays casually. He feels a sense of elation, of anticipation that has eluded him for some time. Butterflies? He opens the Pinot Noir and decants it. He glances over at the cutting board, surveying the preparatory work. The dog starts barking, indicating a presence at the door long before the doorbell rings. He looks out the window. Lovely.

Flowing red hair, white summer dress with red accents, red ‘fuck me’ shoes. Nails that match. He opens the door with a smile.

“Welcome. Come on in.”

She takes off her shoes and follows him to the kitchen. Even without the heels she is tall, regal in stature. He pours the wine and offers a toast. Light talk of recent events. He is leaning against the granite counter top, surveying her as she speaks. What a magnificent creature.

Without any preliminaries he instructs her, “Time to dispense with that lovely dress.” She complies without hesitation, he swears that she anticipated his thought. Marvelous. They chat for a while more, her naked except for her white panties, holding her glass of red wine.

He takes the 24 inch horse lead and attaches the brass chain around her waist. He hands her the leather lead as he makes adjustments. They head upstairs to the Master Bedroom. He senses rather than sees her smile as she notices that all is prepared for the Ritual. He sets her on the bed. She dons the blindfold as second nature. He takes the lead and ties each wrist with it, then secures the end to the center spindle of the four poster cherry wood king size bed. There is plenty of room to romp on this bed, but not this day.

Her ankles pulled tightly to each corner post, she is laid exposed to his gaze. As always he starts with a kiss and some licking of her mound, noting the texture of her. After the shave, he reflects on his work. So rarely is it that he gets to do this in his room; he must savor the experience for a few minutes before administering his reward. He sets to work, using fingers and tongue to her clit, and rosebud. Finally he enters her cunt with one, then a few fingers, finding the pressure that he knows will help her find the culmination that her increasingly plaintive groans suggest she must find. One bite takes her over the edge.

He tidies up while she recovers. Blindfold removed, she looks about, adjusting slowly to the brightness of the room. They sip on the wine for a little while and then he leads her back downstairs to the kitchen. He sets the stool in front of the counter. She dons the blindfold once again. Her bare ass is cold against the granite.

“Hold your arms up over your head.” He wraps the nylon braid around each wrist.

“Too tight,” she states.

He deliberates for a second. “Fine.” He re-does the wrap, then attaches the tether hook to the pot rack above her head. It is now time to prepare luncheon. He heats the skillet and applies oil to it, then takes the Andouille sausage and places the links into the frying pan. He now has five minutes of playtime. He turns back to the prep counter, picks his first ingredient and strides to where she has been dutifully, silently waiting. He tells her to guess at what it might be that he is using upon her. He applies the onion to her left nipple, only using the rough opened face that was used for the diced onion on the chopping block. He wonders how that might feel on her sensitive nipple, but not for long because the telltale signs are already there. Ah, how they stiffen, and wrinkle ever so slightly.

The scent is obvious. “Onion.”

“Good guess.” The game is played again with red bell pepper, but this time it is run along her lips as well as her breasts, then quickly drawn down to her clit.

The sausage is browned, he waits for it to cool a bit, then instructs her to open her mouth. He marvels at how easily she complies. It pleases him. That trust is a true ambrosia. He wonders if she knows the power of that trust yet?

He places the sausage in her mouth. “Don’t bite down.”

He has several culinary tasks to do. There is silence as he goes about the next step in the preparation. He withdraws the sausage, cuts it into thin slices, then quarters those and tosses them into the sautéing mixture. He has time again. Looking up to his rack, he decides on his first implement. The carving fork. Two long stainless steel tines, about ½ inch apart. He places it upon her right breast, and pushes it hard into it, on the flat edge. He pushes it up along her nipple, until it is cradled in the apex of the curve of the end of the tines. It is trapped, and a perfect fit. He gazes at the hapless nipple, then gives it a quick flick with his finger. She winces noticeably. He slowly draws the fork downward until it clears the nipple, then he angles it so that the pointy ends of the tines are at her sensitive flesh. He pushes a bit deeper. A moan escapes her lips, then a sigh.

He drags the fork roughly down the lower part of her breast, down her abdomen. Slowly. Deliberately. He shudders at the power of those two points, obvious from the reactions of his accomplice. As he slides the tines along her lips, she gasps. Her clit now encircled, he pushes hard, exposing it dramatically. Oh, fuck how he enjoys that taste. That texture. He is careful not to let her feel him trembling at the restraint of his actions. As he is licking at her, he can’t help but feel his need with his hand.

The first swat with the stainless steel spatula upon her breast is a sharp contrast to his attentions to her clit. The second, not unexpected. The third, achingly pleasant. Then, nothing. The sound of scraping on the granite, and a chuckle. He is reflecting on the times years ago that he would use this implement on his wife when she allowed him, ALLOWED him, his kinky desire to tie her up and satisfy her. To this day she did not know what was so smooth and cool that he fucked her with.

As he undoes the base of the granite paper towel holder he contemplates his next move. Hot or cold? His smile grows. Cold it is. Without warning he shoves the 14 inch marble shaft that has been held under cold tap water into her core.

“Fuck! That is fucking cold!”

“Hold it there with your thighs, I have to attend to lunch.”

He nurses the simmering concoction, takes a taste test. He always samples what he will inflict upon others as a matter of principle. Almost ready. He withdraws the shaft from her. He rinses it, cleans it with antibacterial soap. It will be disinfected in the autoclave later, with the other toys. He washes her clean as well. She is shivering. He speaks to her to cover the ignition of the crème brulee torch.

“Cold, are you?” He holds the torch to his wrist, adjusting the distance of the comfort range.

As he approaches her, he hears a word not yet spoken in the many months of teaching her. “No.”

He withdraws immediately, not saying a word. He gives her time to regain her composure. “Are you OK?” The nod is in the affirmative, but he knows her better than that. “We will discuss this at another time. Hold on to those feelings. Keep them well.”

There is more than one way to warm you up. The simmering Red Bean Andouille sausage dish is ready. He scoops a small portion and applies it to her breast and massages it in, then languidly laps at it, savoring the smoky flavor and pungent aroma. Now the other breast. Tasty. He grabs a large scoop of the mixture in his hand and applies it to her cunt, rubbing it roughly into her folds. He takes a piece of sausage and rubs it directly on her clit. He knows that the heat sensation is almost unbearable. He laps it up, enjoying the contrast of its flavor with hers.

“Are you ready to enjoy lunch?”

She nods vigorously. “It smells delicious!”

He unbinds her and gets her accustomed to having her arms below head level. An hour has passed by since he secured her to the rack. He gently places her on the stool in the middle of the ceramic floor. This might get messy, he thinks to himself. He slowly undresses, all the while admiring her, sitting there, mouth at waist level, attentive and expectant. Lovely. Captivating.

He scoops the first serving with his cock and gently nudges her chin. She is accustomed to this motion and she opens her mouth without hesitation. This happens every time he enters her mouth. The wave of pleasure, not just from the tactile feeling, of velvet on velvet, but from the sheer contrast of her acceptance. She feeds hungrily on the first scoop. He ponders whether she is moaning from the food or the service that she is providing. He does not ask.


“Oh, yes!” The cycle continues for quite some time and he notices the effects of the Cajun spices upon his member. Hot. Very hot. Her mouth is cool by comparison and it drives him to feed her more, quickly. The sips of red wine have a slightly cooling effect, but not enough to quench his passion. He almost gives in to the need, but catches himself.

“Done yet?”


“Then keep sucking. Cleanse the palate. Ready for desert?”

Another dreamy, Hmmmmmm. Good. He pours the elixir and spills it all over the counter top in his excited state. Thank God for blindfolds, this is embarrassing, he thinks. After cleaning up from the mishap he knows that she now knows what is coming.

He dips his cockhead into the glass of elixir, then into her mouth. The Hmmmmm is much more emphatic now. They share an affinity for this beverage. He knows that dessert will be a short course.

As he fucks her mouth, no longer allowing her control of the motion, he tells her, “Whatever happens, do not swallow.” Despite the blindfold her puzzlement is obvious, and proves to be the tipping point. He cums, enjoying the release as he has not in a fair while, as much because of what he anticipates is to happen as from the buildup of this scene.

She is sitting on the stool, mouthful of his cum, mindful of not swallowing. His gaze is fixed upon her face as he withdraws slowly from her mouth. Fuck, this is so fucking hot. He takes a long draw from the glass of elixir, then leans down and holds her chin up. She was not expecting this kiss. Their tongues entwine, lips sealed to prevent the escape of precious fluid. He tastes the contrasts of the vanilla undertones of the cognac and his essence, while being mixed by the excited action of tongue on tongue. He digs deep and laps, swallows. He knows that she has felt this. Is there much left for her? What are her thoughts? Should he care at all? Fuck it. His scene.

“How was dessert?”

She seems lost in a reverie of her own. “Lovely,” he thinks he hears her whisper.

They clean up, put away toys. He offers her to use the shower in the Master en suite, which she accepts gratefully.

“Care for a vanilla bean cappuccino?”

“Yes, please.” They are both running out of time.

She is back downstairs, back to being fully clothed. A rare creature that looks equally delicious naked or in any attire. He hands her the warm beverage.

“Nice cups!” Small talk ensues about the weekend ahead, family friends. They are both assimilating this scene, neither ready to discuss it. She flashes an impish grin, “I have to go. Lunch was delicious and the presentation outstanding.”

He leads her to the door, bids her farewell. As the door closes, he unconsciously licks at his lips. Presentation, indeed.

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