Lucrezia Magazine

“What are you going to wear?”
“Oh, Mom.”
Zoe was getting ready for a dinner date and these preprandial confabs were part of the whole primping routine. Zoe Mancusi dolled up for her mother as well as her man.
“What does this fella do for a living?”

“He’s not a drug dealer or a pimp. Beyond that, I really don’t care. Tonight is about getting laid.”
“Zoe! Shame on you. How did I raise such a bad girl?”
“You sent me to Catholic schools.”

“Yes. Geez, why can’t I meet a man who treats me as well as you do?
“Because I’m your mother, dear.”
Zoe rang off with pleasantries and promises to fill her mother in on all the festive details. Except, of course, for the sex.

It has been Zoe’s experience that men reveal their palates and preferences early on and women simply choose to ignore them. A woman will say, Well, sure, Charles told me about a dish his mother cooked with eggplant which gave him diarrhea before a school assembly and he’s hated the purple bastard ever since… but he hasn’t tried my eggplant. Zoe will try just about anything before it turns into haggis, but she only requires a partner be experimental in the bedroom. Still, if a man would visit a dentist before a new rustic haunt and won’t even dip a crust of bread in olive oil, Zoe knows the union to be doomed.

Zoe wasn’t having that problem with Matt whose idea of foreplay was hitting a wine tasting before dinner at an intime establishment where diners may kiss and cosset each other in dimly lit corners, their bottoms and torsos twisting like windmills in the plush leather booths. The trouble with Matt was his workaholic approach to life left little time for living… and even less time for love. To make up for an interminably long business trip, Matt was taking Zoe to a restaurant in the market famed to be an erstwhile bordello. (The eatery’s short but stocky menu is famous for its snapper and steamed mussels.) She felt decidedly sexy as she shifted her legs into sheer thigh highs, jerked a thong between the dollops of her squeezable cheeks and slid on a dress as perky as it was soft. The door buzzer zipped through an erotic fantasy she was having involving Matt and another woman: a picture of Matt blindfolded but his hands were free to cradle the crown of somebody’s head as each gal took a turn devouring his magnificent cock with hungry, rapacious want. That buzzing sound again? Oh, yeah: the door.

“Wow, you look fantastic.” In one beau geste, Matt met Zoe’s face while pushing down the straps of her dress, so much of her skin lovingly exposed but instantly warming to his heat. She led him to the bedroom, but Matt began to protest. “Our reservations honey…”
“We can be late. I want to show you how much I’ve missed you.”
And she had missed him and longed for the weight of his body barreling over hers, rocking her and fucking her with a continuity that wouldn’t break until the night had changed plans and there, suddenly, was a new day to be grateful for.

Zoe was glad she hadn’t worn a bra, watching her breasts fall into Matt’s hands like fruit in a basket. He knew just how to knead her flesh and smooth her nipples until she was squirming with an abject wetness that made standing difficult. She leaned against the wall watching him undress. Matt had muscles galore but they were delicately sculpted and when he shaved his chest hair, he could have been a marmoreal exhibit at the entryway of a museum. He looked almost too beautiful to touch. But touch him she would...

They always started with a missionary position then moved on to sample other acts of kindness. He told her to keep the stockings but seized the crotch of her thong with one hand while gently grazing her vagina with his knuckles.
“This thong won’t last long. I can either make like the Incredible Hulk and tear them to smithereens or, better yet, inhale them. What do you want?”

Before getting a reply, there he was, tunneling between her legs, his tongue a motor on her clit, his teeth like prongs cutting through those cumbersome panties; Matt used his hands like oars and paddled Zoe’s legs off to the berm of the bed while he kept meting out pleasure in crashing, plaintive waves, determined to make her come first. (He was very considerate that way.) Her orgasm vibrated through the room; trying not to scream with delight she ended up coughing, trying not to choke. They both started laughing, but Zoe’s orgasm kept ringing through the air like a reveille, a call to action. She used her best sheet to dry herself off; she had begun to sweat, then dabbed between her legs for she had never been so wet in her life. She scrooched down on her knees with designs on Matt’s cock. She had only licked the head like a stamp when Matt was buoying them both to the center of the mattress and damn, there he was, his eyes pinned to hers before hooking the back of her neck with his forearm. He whispered sweet somethings into her ear then expanded her world with a gift few men have for mounting priapic pleasure.

They made love over and over again until they were both wasted and ravenous.
“I think we lost our reservation,” Matt chuckled. “I think the restaurant closed a long time ago.”
“That’s okay. I know a 24-hour pizza delivery service. Not half bad.”
“I bet they don’t have mascarpone cheese.”
“Uh, no.”

© 2008 Olivia London

Olivia London is the pseudonym of a woman with boundless sexual energy; she lives by the Flaubert model of being temperate in life so she can be wild with her art. Also, writing hot fiction is the only way to endure a cold lime. Olivia London's erotic short stories have also appeared on Clean Sheets.