Free Feast on Me by Terri George

Prologue
    The blue silk robe slid down my
arms and he took it from me. I eased my body into a comfortable
position, arms by my side, legs parted, and relaxed against the
smoothness of the wooden table beneath me. My head rested on a
small soft pillow.
    I’d spent the day being
pampered at the most exclusive salon, my entire body cleansed and
buffed in preparation. Muscles were eased under the expert hands of
the masseuse. As I’d been instructed, my nails, fingers and toes,
manicured and painted scarlet. A bit of a cliché and a departure
from the French manicure I usually favor.
    I’d been waxed the day before,
allowing for the required twenty-four hours before indulging in any
kind of... activity. So now I laid pristine. Naked. My lightly
tanned skin glistened in the warm glow of the overhead lights;
dimmed sufficiently to shroud the corners of the room in
semi-darkness.
    I closed my eyes as he secured
the blindfold in place, lowered my head back onto the pillow, and
sighed.
    Two settings of china, glasses
and flatware made little chinking sounds as he laid them on the
table. My senses were already heightened. That and the slight
disturbance in the air told me they were being placed either side
of my hips. So the diners would be seated close to my pussy.
    A tiny shiver rippled through
me, but not because I was cold. The room was warm enough.
Anticipation caused the slight tremor in my breathing.
    Anticipation ... The most erotic word
in the English language.
    Expectation bloomed with the
impatience of a child on Christmas Eve, of what lay ahead and the
bodily pleasures I would experience tonight.
    He’d prepared a plate of fresh
fruit earlier, along with their appetizer and entree, which sat
ready on the credenza with the San Pellegrino.
    Slivers of fleshy papaya and
succulent cantaloupe melon slid wetly on my skin. Rivulets of
juiciness ran down my thighs and abdomen into little syrupy
pools.
    Pineapple rings were positioned
with care on my breasts. The hole in the center fit perfectly
around each nipple, already peaked. Two tell-tale signs of my
desirous state.
    My pulse quickened as something
brushed against my inner thigh. Fingers and thumb parted my outer
lips and opened me to receive the soft plumpness he gently
inserted. That must be the strawberry.
    Air trapped inside the plastic
bottle made a small ‘pffft’ sound as the chocolate sauce was
generously squirted over my body in an abandoned, gooey zigzag.
    All that chocolate. Too sweet,
too sticky?
    No. It wasn’t just women who
had a partiality for cocoa. They too had a sweet tooth, and two
tongues with which to lick me clean.
    I am not the appetizer, or even
the entree.
    I am the course they most
anticipate.
    I am, Dessert.
     

Chapter
One
    When I entered the gallery late
Saturday afternoon I had no expectations, other than spending a
couple of hours looking at art. An exhibition of erotica: black and
white photographs that ranged from the tastefully sensual to
explicit.
    The serene expression I
maintained as I moved around gave nothing away; the wetness between
my legs a secret, hidden testimony to my arousal; my nipples that
poked unhindered against the fabric of my dress, a more public
proof.
    I stood contemplating one
particular photo. The camera couldn’t have been more than two feet
away. The female subject was waxed, and there was a small tattoo at
the apex of her inner thigh, right in that little hollow. It looked
like an inverted number four − the way you would write it (a
downwards slash cutting through the base of a capital L) not how a
computer types it. It was a striking image.
    “ Chikara.”
His softly spoken word startled me, and I turned. “It means power.
And that is where the power lies.” His smile was one of veneration.
“Between a woman’s thighs.”
    He turned his gaze to me. The
dangerous glint in his green eyes burned through my retinas,
triggering impulses to pass through the optic nerves and imprint a
visual on my mind’s