The Tasting Menu

Swearing, reeling, and taking well-controlled backwards steps, my arms and back aching, I hold the fishing line taut as Lucy, drenched to her T-shirt and sports bra, her wet hair glued in clumps to her face and neck, folds herself over the boat stern, throwing her ass in the air, like when she’s in our pantry reaching into the chest freezer for a box of Captain Highliner breaded fish sticks, calling out “The best-before date is just a guideline,” to my “Famous last words.” On the river today, she’s all muscle and piss as she scoops up one furious King Chinook. With a deft sweep of the dip-net, she pivots and drops the leaping and thrashing forty-pound trophy onto the deck. Movement and spring has returned to my joints but my blood’s pumping and my heart’s racing as Lucy smacks me a celebratory high-five and, rain rivulets streaming from her ball-cap, plants me a salty, sweaty wet-mouth kiss.

The roar of the jetboat subsides as it moors and we’re down the dock and racing across a soggy field to the lodge where we’ll shed our wet Gore-Tex and clean up for dinner.

In the shower Lucy plays the brat, dancing around my hard-on. “Dinner’s waiting,” she giggles as I cop feels and bites. Taking control, I turn her back to the hot water jets. Fingers splayed across the tiles, she tilts her hips and slides her legs apart as I guide my dick into her pussy and fuck her, the force of my thrusts lifting her slight figure at every push.

Fresh from the shower, Lucy sits at the dressing table. Her hotel bathrobe hanging open I catch glimpses of her purple lace lingerie, the detail and fabric so delicate it looks like it’s painted on her skin. I admire her reflection in the mirror, Japanese eyes, sleek auburn hair and full rich lips and brown freckles which hint at other exotic complexions. Sensing my stare, Lucy puts on a show. She licks two fingers and slides them under her thong. The fabric ripples as two fingers tickle her clit, emerge to stroke her stomach, linger at her bellybutton, trace up her breastbone, neck, and chin, and pull her lower lip into a pout. With a grab to her wrist, I put a stop to the meandering and pressing my face against her cheek, I nudge her gaze to the bed where on the white down quilt I’ve left a coil of red silk rope. “That’s for later,” I promise. “I’m hungry.”

The bedroom door opens to the grey, misty evening, and Lucy, in a slip dress, and stilettos, hurries across the damp sprawling deck before a herd of commingling bison who chatter and graze with indifference on the surrounding pasture. Inside the dining room, against the floor to ceiling view of sky, field, river and mountain, this spirited specimen of a woman, who started the day with a sporty ponytail and ended up nabbing that beautiful fish, waits for me. She shivers when I kiss her neck and I notice her nipples harden under the loose fabric of her dress. She reaches to sample a tuile and then pauses to discover and hold the flavour and texture of smoked salmon, shallot-infused cream, and black sesame seeds in her mouth. She smiles, raises her eyebrows, and offers the rest to me. Reaching, I nip and suck her fingers, the taste and scent of her enhancing its savoury flavour. She’s as luscious and as fresh as the appetizers.

Falling back into my seat, I lift a vermouth to my lips. Lucy’s figure blurs and I’m imagining her back at the makeup mirror. I’m approaching her from behind, reaching under her bra, squeezing her pretty, plump breasts, and gently pinching her nipples. The bra comes off. My hands massage her neck and slowly fall down her arms to her wrists. I stroke her smooth hands and lacquered fingers and fold her arms one over the other behind her back. Her eyes following mine in the mirror, she complies by cupping her hands and holding the position. I softly lift and drop, testing for looseness and comfort.

I cuff her and loop the rope around her torso once under the breasts and then over. Pulling the shimmering rope towards me, the soft brilliance and even braid, sensuous to the touch, pleases me. I tuck and then cross it in a “V” and finish with a few deft twists secured with simple hitches in a reciprocating pattern, over and through. In the warmth and twinkle of the room, I stroke the knots, her skin, and the pretty chest harness: “You want me?” She nods eagerly. “Maybe later… ”

As I sip the smooth whiskey barrel finish of a Shiraz, the flame of a crackling fire dances around the room. Bottles behind the bar flicker red, gold, blue and purple. Swirls of shiny crimson carpaccio adorn a simple white platter. There’s the faint kitchen sound of cutlery grating against ceramic but I’m back in the silence of the bedroom turning Lucy towards me. Cradling the base of her scalp I guide her mouth to me. She swallows in anticipation but, like a boat outside harbour dropping anchor and then immediately pulling out again, she only gets one taste. A string of her saliva stretches from her lips to my cock as a bead of pre-cum forms at the tip. Clocking her nipples and thighs and stinging with a few hard taps to her pussy, she startles and engages but then, to tease, I leave her, tightly bound, gasping for more.

A flirtatious twinkle in Lucy’s eye captivates the sommelier who smiles bashfully as he pours a tasting of sake into my glass. It’s called Nightingale in the Garden. Lucy is photographing the label when the chef arrives with our salmon cooked, dished, and plated. We inhale the seasoned and seared flesh and savour its full-flavoured velvety fish texture.

An actuary at TD Trust, she talks of risk, but I’ve drifted off. I’m in my dreamworld pulling back her hair and going down on her mouth and throat. Disciplined, I edge out, and turn her onto the makeup table. I rub her bum cheeks, offer a few loose taps and then a spank. Stroking the redness with a calm loving hand, I put my finger to her vagina to find it throbbing. As Lucy squirms and wriggles, I give her another smack.

Tender lamb is served pink in the middle surrounded by a layer of moist and succulent fat. The pairing, an organic Chilean Pais, an ancient grape imported by Spanish Conquistadors in the 16^th century as a sacramental wine, is magnificent but I just want Lucy. In my hotel room fantasy, I beckon her to the bed, tilt her backwards onto the quilt with a bounce, untie her and: “Show me your clit!” She splays open the folds of her cunt and points. Dipping my face into the shorn slot, I lick, tease, and give gentle bites, as she moans in response. My face between her thighs, I yearn for her.

“We’ll take dessert on the deck,” I tell the server.

We settle in log chairs. The grasses rustle and whisper and the moist brown eyes of the fenced animals stare at us, all except for Ferdinand the bull who noses the grass and snorts. There’s the faint distant sound of sleepy autumn bird calls and kitchen staff murmur in conversation as they close down for the night. The bitter earthy flavour of the chocolate cake contrasts with the exotic citrusy taste of yuzu curd and the aromatic undertones of another smooth subtle sake. The lights go out in the dining room and the kitchen goes silent as the chef arrives to book off for the night.

* * *

I saw the chef issue parting instructions to my husband, and everything clicked… why there were no muffled voices in the hallways, no squeaking bedsprings, no shadows at the windows, and how it was that the dining room tonight was ours exclusively, the chef, kitchen and serving staff tending only to us. I tremble at the shocking realization that Nic has paid for us to be here all night entirely alone. Seated under porch lamps before a pasture which breathes and exhales in the darkness before us, we’re two solitary actors before a shaggy-coated audience, who having found the opening acts mildly entertaining, are suddenly uncomfortably agitated by the urgency and intensity of our communion, and quietly stifle their arousal with coughs, fidgets and farts.

A rabbit, blinks, freezes, and flitters away anxiously.

“Stand up,” Nic orders. With his brown Adriatic eyes and his head of black curls tamed by years of responsibility, decisions, and expensive haircuts, Nic Stefanovic eyes me up and down in steely silence. Even in that ridiculously oversized log Adirondack chair, he commands respect.

“Strip for me.”

I allow my dress to fall. Cold, I face him naked and trembling.

“Beg for it!”

“Please Nic… Touch me… I’m desperate for you…”

Nic steps into the bedroom and emerges wearing a hotel robe and carrying a silk rope. He makes a noose and drops it around my neck. Tugging it gently, he pulls it horizontal. He tests the tension and leads: “Come.” Across the deck, over the moonlit field and down to the riverbank, we stop under an alder tree. I feel the rope slide off and melting I offer my wrists. Nic laces them twice, hoists my arms up over my head, and ties them to a branch.

The herd is restless, shapeshifting in the dark, undulating, wailing. Beads of moisture on their fleece, glisten under the Hunter’s moon.

He presses his body against mine, and I feel my freezing nipples warm against his chest. As he pulls the arch of my back towards him, his fingers count down the ridges of my spine until his fingers find the cleavage of my bum and reach to penetrate. My knees buckling, he drops to lick me, and I feel my body swelling, hardening, and gripping. Amidst the ancient bog of blood, brambles, grass, and fur, the earthy smells of moist earth, the vastness of the sky, and the brilliance of the moon, he rises to standing as his cock hardens for me. My body rocking, his arms lock under my buttocks and thighs. Breaching and surfacing, he springs out into me, a deep abiding surrender and connection.

Menu:

Tuiles topped with smoked salmon and creme fraiche, garnished with black sesame seeds and finely chopped shallots.

Coriander seed and pepper bison carpaccio and pickled beet with fennel seed served with truffle aioli.