0 comments/ 46184 views/ 1 favorites The Feast By: Guru Introduction ============ I'm Ryan, an amateur, almost-gourmet chef. No proper training -- I'm self-taught, but I love to cook for my friends. My favorite meals are those that are unusual. It excites me to prepare a unique dish for guests. I know they've never eaten anything like this before. This is the story of a very exciting dish that I prepared for my wife and another couple on a hot summer night in August. * * * * * * Preparation =========== I began the preparations for the feast by preparing the salad ingredients. I want to have a very festive, floral look to the meal, so I use flower petals that are edible: roses, several shades of pink to red; pansies, very purple; and nasturtium. I also have a small bit of red and green leaf lettuce. These will "stick" to the dressing, and soak it up a little, so I can garnish with petals and lettuce leaves in various patterns. I put each type of petal and leaf into a separate bowl. I need a dressing for the salad. A raspberry-vinaigrette, with a sweet-and-sour quality, will be nice. I mixed raspberry vinegar and olive oil, add a few herbs and whisk it thoroughly to emulsify. I've used extra-virgin olive oil with a chuckle of amusement--as if it could be more virgin than some other, less virgin oil. Also, I prepare a platter of succulent vegetables, and arrange them in generous portions. For the main course, a sauce with a little flavor to it will be right. I dare not overwhelm the wonderfully subtle flavors of my dish. I decide to make a slightly spicy teriyaki-like glaze. A half-cup of sake, the same amount of mirin, and an equal amount of soy sauce. This is heated, reduced to about half, to make a nice, flavorful glaze. I'm planning to serve a cheese course right after the main course, to give everyone a chance to cleanse the palette. A very blue Stilton cheese and a Port will be perfect. The Stilton has just the right amount of rich, earthy flavor to make everyone crave the sweet, delectable dessert to follow. Finally, I need that rich and sweet dessert, to give my diners a wonderful treat. Chocolate is my wife's favorite, so it has to be Chocolate Mousse. This is the most difficult to prepare, and I have it in the fridge, ready to go, from preparing it the night before. * * * * * * Prelude ======= Everything is ready, and all that is left is to await the arrival of the guests. I have opened the windows to let the cooling afternoon breeze flow through the house. It's not quite hot enough to be uncomfortable, but it is certainly weather in which not to overdress. I have invited another couple over to dine with us, and explained my plans for the special meal. They are very good friends, and have been for many years. We have been so busy lately that we haven't been able to get together with them in ages, so this is a real treat. My wife, Kris, is excited about seeing them. She is 5'8" tall, with a nice, voluptuous roundness to her body. Her breasts aren't large, but well proportioned on her chest. She has very long brown hair that drapes straight down her back all the way to her full ass. Dark brows and high cheekbones frame her sparkling green eyes. She has dressed for the occasion. She is wearing one of her favorite sundresses, because it is a warm summer night. It is rather sheer gauze, of an almost transparent nature. I can, when the light is right, see the outline of her breasts, or her neatly trimmed pubic hair and her full lips. Her silhouette is delightful when the angle is right. Her hair is pulled up on her head, with a large brass comb to fasten it. She has no makeup on... none is needed, since her face and lips are always beautiful in their natural state, smooth in color and texture. I'm dressed casually, jeans and a nice, "batik" print shirt. I wear my special, silk boxers that Kris likes so much. They feel so smooth against my skin that they remind me of their presence all night long. I am 6'2" and rather slim. My skin is a milky buff color that suitably compliments my blonde hair and lake-blue eyes. Kris says my lips are smooth and rich. I'm not so sure. Finally, we see the car pull up. I can hear Kris' breathing change a little -- a flush of excitement? She takes a deep breath as the car doors open. "Here they are," I say. Duh, she knew that, but saying it has given her something else to think about. "Yeah. How do I look? Is everything okay?" she asks, as she looks around the room. "You look mahhh-velous," I joke, trying to imitate the comedian's line from Saturday Night Live. She giggles a little, I think more at how lame I sound than the humor of the imitation. As Steve and Denise walk up to the front door, we get a look at them. They are both dressed casually. Steve is dressed in jeans and T-shirt. He's about 6' tall, and muscular. Through his tight T-shirt you can see the ripple of his abs. His face is clean-shaven, and his skin has a rich, deep tan. Dark, almost black hair adorns his head in a cocky, spike cut. Denise is wearing a denim skirt with a tight silk blouse. It nicely accentuates her small breasts. She is short, about 5'4" and of average build. She's half-Latina, so she has light coffee coloration and big, almond shaped eyes in a rich brown color that seem so deep. Her dark hair shines red in the sun. The short skirt she wears nicely frames her rounded butt, and emphasizes her well-proportioned thighs. As they get to the door, I open it and we greet each other. "Man, Steve, nice to see you," as I shake his hand and we clap each other on the back. "Kris, you look great!" Denise says, as she hugs my wife warmly. "Denise, you look wonderful," Kris replies. "Nice to see you guys!" Kris says, and quickly moves to hug Steve in a lingering manner. Giving Denise a full body hug, I say, "So happy to see you guys. It's been forever since we last got together." "You're looking good, Ryan," Denise remarks. Naturally drifting toward the kitchen, as that seems to be where we do our entertaining, we all make ourselves comfortable in chairs around the casual family table. I hand each a glass of sparkling white wine. I raise my glass to make a toast: "An exciting meal with good friends, what could be better!" We click our glasses in a buoyant fashion, and enjoy the first drink of the evening. There is some small talk, and catching up on our lives as we finish the first round, and then another. After the second round, and the bottle, is done, I announce "Okay, it's time to begin The Feast." Opening the double-doors to the dining room, everyone can see the spread that I've laid out. There is a knee-high table in the center of the room with a gold lame tablecloth on it that is empty. There are candles placed about the room, providing a warm glow, but absolutely none on the table. At either side of the room, adorned by bouquets of fresh flowers, are two buffets tables that have a selection of small bowls and plates with the items I prepared earlier. There are no napkins, but at the side of each buffet table is a pile of fluffy towels. Our plan is to prepare this meal as a group, each participating as both chef and diner. * * * * * * Appetizer course ================ The Feast I lay here tonight. This place reeks of self-damnation. I strapped myself down on this cold, stainless steel table, the taut, braided rope bruising my skin. Of course, I leave the door wide open. The beast enters and finds his feast laid out before him. I feel a spurt of energy course through my brain. A concentrated effort at a thought halts for a half moment of clarity. I know I should have closed the door. This half moment gone, I try to explore this thought, but it is truly a paradox in this dimly lit room. The beast is so handsome, his touch so soft, his words so seductive and beguiling. I hardly notice when he pulls out his instruments. He came prepared for his delectable meal, so casually lying before him. He sets the fork aside for now on the table right above my head. In the other hand he holds a knife. The blade winks at me, sharing with me a delightful joke, as it catches a single ray of the minuscule light in the room. I smile in spite of myself and the beast believes the smile is for him to take. He bends down and places a sweet kiss on my lips. His lizard tongue slides into my mouth and wraps itself around my own tongue. A burst of pleasure turns violently into an explosion of pain as he rips it out of my mouth and chews it with a smile caressing his tender lips. The knife winks at me again as I notice I am deprived of speech. For some reason, perhaps because of the emptiness of this room, this event does not bother me. I feel it should, but every ounce of marrow in my bones is indifferent to the matter at hand. The beast lifts the knife and plunges it gently into the skin between my collarbones and slides it down to my pelvic bone, stopping right before the nest of hair that tries, in vain, to protect my innocence. He uses his strong hands to rip me open with that same smile now dancing with greedy hunger in his eyes. He looks into my face and he sees the smile, at least, reflected in my visage. I don't know why I continue to smile. Another spurt of energy goes galloping through my brain. I know every stop I have taken here encourages this pleased beast. To stop him from devouring his meal, all I have to do is let the excruciating pain fade the smile in my eyes. The thought disappears again and I don't understand the significance of my smile. He sets his knife down next to my thigh and seizes his fork. He submerges this utensil into me as he kneels down to shovel in every drop. I cannot see what he eats, but I can feel my stomach quickly disappearing. His snarling and moaning tell me I have prepared his meal well. This pleasure he partakes in should be of little comfort to me, but somehow I am delighted by his gratified gluttony. He has moved up to my chest now, but I can still see very little. However, he makes a mistake in his feasting. He plunges his fork into something with a tremendous amount of pleasure and rises to his feet. He scoops it out of my chest cavity, lifts it high above his head, tilts his head back, and admires his prize. The blood of my heart drips on his face. He opens his mouth as if catching snowflakes on his tongue on a beautiful winter morning. He lowers his arm and places my whole core into his gaping mouth. As I watch him chew, his continence changes. His radiant skin whips back as if overcome with horror to reveal a white, transparent version of his body. Now he wears a white robe and possesses great, white, feathered wings coming out of his back. So enchanting that it must have summoned all of the beauty in the universe to lay this scene before me. However, there is one slight imperfection that screams a message I cannot understand in this dimly lit room. His eye sockets are empty. He kneels down, his knife wielded for one more cut. He quickly saws off the lips of my vagina as the knife laughs at my nest that yet again fails in protecting my virginity. He commits the cruelest rape as he rises to his feet in all his glory. With his wings gently flapping, his robe white as snow, he devours my possibility of sexual pleasure. I no longer smile. He does not bother looking into my face, for he knows nothing kind or pleasurable will greet him after he has consumed my heart. His presence elegantly floats away from me and exits this room that reeks of self-damnation. His feast is complete and I am empty. However, he made one mistake. I witnessed every sin he committed in this room. He left me my eyes. I will lay here a while more and allow this dimly lit room to brighten. I bared witness to his crimes. Soon, my feasting day will come. The Feast of St Cilla About a year after leaving university, I started writing a novel. But then life got in the way. So, for something like 16 or 17 years, the partly-written novel sat in a drawer. From time to time, I'd take it out, read bits of it, convince myself that it had possibilities and that I really should find the time to finish it off, but that's about as far as I got. And then Global-Euro approached me with an offer for the wine business that I had been building up. At first I thought that it must have been some kind of joke. But then Neil -- my accountant -- said: 'No. It makes a lot of sense. It would give them another eight well-performing retail units in London. Of course, they could make a total hash of it. But let's assume that they don't. If they could keep all eight units humming along for at least another three or four years; maybe grow them a bit; use Global-Euro's buying power to trim a few costs; that would give them some very useful cashflow.' 'So you think it's a real offer?' I said. Neil tapped some numbers into a calculator. 'It's a cheeky offer,' he said. 'But if you're interested, we should perhaps talk to them.' 'Well ... to be honest, I don't really want to be a wine merchant for the rest of my life,' I said. 'I'd like to have a crack at being a writer.' Neil raised an eyebrow, but then he said: 'OK. Do you want me to work up a bit of a counter proposal?' Three months later, the deal was done. I also had a chain-free offer on my Notting Hill house. 'So ... what now?' Neil said, as we toasted the deal with a couple of glasses of Ch Lynch-Bages. 'I think a small flat in town and somewhere quiet in the country. And then I should give myself two years to see if I can write.' 'Two years? Will that be enough?' 'It should be long enough to work out whether it's worth continuing,' I said. I started out by thinking that 'somewhere quiet in the country' might be somewhere quiet in The Cotswolds. But the more I looked, the more I realised that nowhere in The Cotswolds is really that quiet anymore. And that's how I ended up buying Number 1, St Cilla's Cottages, Harpwell. 'Harpwell?' Neil said. 'Where the hell is Harpwell?' 'In the middle of nowhere. But still only about two-and-a-quarter hours from central London.' In fact, Harpwell is not quite in the middle of nowhere. If you look at an Ordinance Map, Harpwell has three small towns within 15 or 20 minutes' drive. But, these days, Harpwell itself consists of two cottages and the remains of an ancient wood. Everything else has been swallowed up by a couple of giant agri-business farmers. St Cilla's Cottages are tucked away down a shared driveway off a narrow B-road. According to the title deeds, there used to be four cottages. But a sharp-eyed developer knocked four rather small farm workers' cottages into two of more generous proportions. 'Tell me about the neighbours,' I said to the estate agent. 'Well, I understand that Mrs Stoddart is an artist, a painter,' he said. 'And her husband is something to do with films. Or is it TV? It's one of those. I think.' For the first couple of weeks that I lived at Number 1, my neighbours were not at home. And then one afternoon, about four o'clock, there was a knock on the door. When I opened the door, an attractive woman in her late forties, maybe early fifties, was standing there holding a bottle of wine. 'Hello,' she said. 'I'm Sarah Stoddart. I'm your neighbour.' 'Oh. Right. Nice to meet you. I'm Mike. Mike Clarke. Come on in.' 'I've been down in France,' Sarah said. 'We have a little place in the Dordogne.' 'You and your husband?' She shook her head. 'No husband, I'm afraid. I own the Dordogne place with George, an old friend from school. Oh, and I brought you some wine. A little welcome gift. I don't know if you ....' I glanced at my watch. 'Thank you,' I said. 'And, yes, not only do I enjoy a glass of the grape from time to time, but I notice that it's just gone wine o'clock. Let me find some glasses.' 'Oh, I wasn't meaning ....' 'Oh? Do you need to be somewhere else?' I said. 'No.' 'Good. Settled then.' I grabbed a couple of glasses and a corkscrew. 'I gather you're an artist, a painter.' Sarah frowned. 'A painter? Well, I did go to some evening classes,' she said. 'But, no, I wouldn't say that I was a painter.' 'A small misunderstanding,' I said, handing her a glass of wine. 'The ... umm ... estate agent.' 'Ah, yes. Well, they tell you what they think you want to hear, don't they?' 'So it would seem,' I said. 'Not that there's anything wrong with not being a painter you understand. And not that there's anything wrong with not having a husband who works in TV.' Sarah gave me a slightly strange look. 'Oh ... and cheers.' 'Yes, cheers. And welcome. The husband in TV ... I suppose that's the estate agent again?' 'Afraid so,' I said. Sarah nodded and took a sip of her wine. 'I gather that you're from London.' 'Notting Hill. Yes.' 'And have you had a chance to look around yet?' she said, making a sweeping gesture with her free hand. 'Get your bearings?' 'I've managed to find the supermarket. And what I assume is the nearest petrol station. Oh, and a couple of pubs.' 'The Green Man?' 'The Green Man, yes. And the ... umm ... The Crown.' 'The Crown. Right. I prefer The Green Man myself. Still, it's nice to have a choice. So many places don't these days, do they?' Sarah took a sip of her wine, and then she said: 'And have you had a chance to inspect St Cilla's Wood.' 'No, not yet,' I said. 'Although I gather that we jointly own it. Is that right?' 'We do. But as I'm sure your solicitor would have told you, it's protected -- so we can't turn it into a housing development or anything like that.' 'Fair enough,' I said. 'St Cilla? Now she's the patron saint of music. Or am I getting confused?' Sarah smiled. 'I think you'll find that's St Celia.' 'Oh, yes, of course. So what's St Cilla's cause?' 'St Cilla's cause? Perhaps you should visit the wood.' 'Oh? You think that will explain all?' 'It might,' Sarah said. 'OK. Maybe that's something I could do tomorrow. Any hints in the meantime?' 'Probably more fun if you discover for yourself,' she said. As it happened, it was cold and wet and windy for the next couple of days and, apart from a quick trip to bring in some more firewood, I didn't leave the house. And then I had to head back to London for a couple of days to finalise the purchase of my new 'city bolthole', a one-bedroom flat on the edge of Bloomsbury. Despite its diminutive proportions, the flat cost me about the same as my three-bedroom Notting Hill house had cost ten years earlier. Just as well the Notting Hill house had more than tripled in value. When they say that London property prices have gone crazy, boy, they're not kidding. When I got back to Harpwell, the bad weather had moved on and it was suddenly mild and spring-like -- a perfect day to visit the woods I thought. As I said, St Cilla's Wood was the 'remains' of an ancient wood. Apparently, the wood had once covered about 50 acres. Now, the bit over which my neighbour and I held custodianship was just over five acres. Still, it was better than having no wood at all. It definitely added a bit of character to the landscape. Around the edge of the wood there was what was left of a protective bank and, on top of that, a hawthorn hedge. Someone -- long ago -- would have built the bank and planted the hedge to keep out grazing animals. Now the surrounding farmland was used for cropping, so the protection was largely redundant. On the edge of the wood nearest to the cottages, there was a break in the hedge and an old iron gate. I pushed open the gate and paused to reflect on the fact that there had been a wood on this patch of land since before Shakespeare's time. From the gate, there was a woodland path that first went off at an angle to the left and then appeared to curve back to the right. I followed the path, doing my best to avoid the remaining muddy puddles. And then, maybe 200 yards into the trees, I noticed a man-made structure, a little like a small garden shed or a sentry box. I guessed that it would have been built as a shelter for the woodsman -- or woodsmen -- who would have coppiced the wood in years gone by. I went to take a closer look, and that's when I saw her. 'Sitting' in the shelter was a life-sized carved stone figure of a woman, naked save for a floral garland on her thrown-back head. And she was masturbating. Her stout stone legs were spread wide and her stone fingers were hard at work on her spread stone vulva. Or was I misreading the situation? For a few moments, I tried to think what else she could have been doing. But, in the end I concluded that, no, there really was only one explanation: she was masturbating. An incised legend on the front edge of the stone bench on which she was sitting identified the masturbatress as St Cilla. 'Did I see you heading off to the woods this morning?' Sarah asked, as we shared an end-of-the-day glass of Côtes du Rhône. 'You did,' I said. 'And, as you might expect, I met St Cilla.' 'Oh, good. And how was she?' 'Busy,' I said. 'Especially her fingers.' Sarah smiled and nodded. 'The statue,' I said, 'is it real? Is it old?' It certainly looked old. But I figured that Sarah was the expert. (I had since discovered that my painter neighbour was actually an archaeologist.) 'Depends on your idea of old. I'd say late seventeenth century -- 1685, something like that. Although I don't think she has been in the woods for more than about 60 or 70 years. I'd say she's probably spent most of her life indoors.' 'Interesting,' I said. 'What's also interesting is that on older maps, the wood is shown as Scylla's Wood.' 'Of Scylla and Charybdis fame?' 'Possibly,' Sarah said. 'Suggesting that the wood was renamed after the statue?' 'Again, it's a possibility.' For a moment or two, we sipped in silence. And then I asked Sarah if Cilla (as opposed to Scylla) had any causes other than the one suggested by her statue. Sarah laughed. 'Not that I'm aware of. Interestingly, the museum has a couple of painted wooden panels -- also probably late 17th century. They're not on display. They're tucked away in a store room. But both are clearly marked St Cilla. And both depict ... hmm ... well ... busy fingers. Apart from that though, Cilla's a bit of a mystery girl. Of course, she could be an elaborate bawdy joke. Perhaps a local one. The Bard himself was known to enjoy a good bawdy joke -- you know ... country matters and all that.' I don't know why, but I quite liked the idea of St Cilla being an elaborate bawdy joke. It was an idea that made me smile. As May turned into June, I woke up one morning to the realisation the writing, even when one is doing it from the peace and quiet of a cottage in the country, is hard work. My initial method of working only when my muse was at my elbow was a total disaster. She turned up all too infrequently. And, even when she was on hand, we were both easily distracted. After six weeks of writing in fits and starts, I had managed to produce slightly fewer than 15,000 words -- and, unfortunately, their connection to the 20,000 words from 17 years earlier was, at best, tenuous. That was when I decided that I needed to be at my desk at 8:00 am each and every morning -- and that I needed to stay there until I had produced a thousand words worth reading. It's a job like any other, I told myself. Treat it as a job, Mike. Stop mucking about! On the morning that I finally admitted that writing was hard work, it suddenly seemed to get easier. By midday, I had produced and polished just over 1200 words. And they seemed to make sense. I decided to reward myself by making a cup of double-shot coffee and taking it out into the garden. It was one of those June days that you hope for but never really expect. There were just a few wisps of fine-weather cloud out on the horizon; there was virtually no breeze; and the sun was not just warm, it was hot. As I strolled out onto the lawn behind the cottages, coffee in hand, feeling at ease with the entire universe, I suddenly noticed something out of the corner of my eye. It was Sarah. She was lying out on a sun lounger. And she was naked. Totally naked. I mean ... totally, totally naked. 'Oh, sorry,' I said. 'I didn't realise ....' 'That's all right,' Sarah said. 'I wasn't asleep or anything. I just had my eyes closed. Isn't it a brilliant day?' 'Umm ... yes. Yes, it is,' I said. 'Yes.' 'Taking a break?' Sarah said. 'Just rewarding myself with a cup of coffee,' I said, trying to be as nonchalant as she seemed to be. 'Would you like one?' 'Oh, yes. That would be very nice. Thank you.' 'I'll just go and ....' I hurried back to the kitchen. Making the coffee took less than a minute. But then I waited for another couple of minutes -- just to give Sarah a chance to find some clothes. But she didn't. When I returned to the garden, she was sitting rather than reclining. However, she was still very naked. 'Thank you,' she said, taking the coffee. 'I just love it when the sun finally returns, don't you?' 'Umm ... yes. Yes, I suppose so. I think you probably ... umm ... notice it more in the country, don't you?' 'Well, I guess there's more ...' she made a little gesture with her hand that caused her right breast to bobble, 'more nature. Yes, more nature. In fact I'm sure there is.' She had a point. I certainly couldn't imagine my London neighbour stripping off and laying out on her handkerchief-sized patio at the first sign of summer sun. 'There's another chair in the garden shed,' Sarah said, 'you know ... if you want to sit for a moment or two.' 'No, no,' I said. 'Thank you, but I really should be getting back to work.' 'Are you sure?' 'Yes, I think so.' 'Well ... if you insist,' she said. 'Oh, and I'm thinking of making risotto later. Chicken and asparagus. If you feel like coming over. Say 6:30? Something like that?' 'Thank you. I'll bring the wine,' I said. Later, as Sarah stood at the hob, gently stirring the risotto, she said: 'I suppose I should have asked you.' 'Asked me?' 'Well, you might not have been comfortable with me sun bathing out in the garden today. I mean ... I'm not as young as I once was. Gravity has more influence than it once did. I sometimes forget that. It must be the sun.' 'Oh, no problem,' I said. 'And you're ... umm ... you know. Not that I .... Well, you know.' 'If you'd rather I didn't ....' 'No, no, no. I'm perfectly fine,' I said. 'Well, I mean you're perfectly fine. Perfectly. You know. Well, we're both perfectly fine.' Sarah smiled and gave me a little kiss. 'Good,' she said. 'I'm so glad that we had that little chat.' 'I'll ... umm ... open the wine,' I said. That night, as I lay in my bed, playing over the events of the day in my mind, I had flashes of Sarah's naked body. And, almost without thinking, I slipped into masturbation mode. The fine weather continued all week. But Sarah had to go off on an archaeological 'dig' so, for the moment anyway, that was the end of the nude sun bathing. At least that was the end of Sarah's nude sun bathing. I must confess, however, that I did try a couple of little sessions of my own. And, yes, I could certainly see what Sarah found so satisfying about it. I heard Sarah returning home late on the Friday night and, on Saturday morning after I had produced my daily quota of words, I knocked on her door and invited her over for a cup of coffee. 'Oh, lovely,' she said. 'Because I have something that I want to talk to you about. I've had an idea.' I went back to my place and got the coffee started. Ten minutes later, Sarah arrived. 'St Cilla,' she said. 'I think we need to celebrate her feast day.' 'Her feast day? So she really is a saint?' 'Who knows?' Sarah said. 'If she is, she is; if she isn't, she should be.' 'But, regardless, we know her feast day?' 'Yes, it's Monday week -- whatever day that is.' 'And how do we know this?' 'Well, it can't be this Monday,' Sarah said. 'I need to be in Norwich this Monday. But it has to be a Monday because The Green Man is closed on Mondays, and I think we need Margret and Jack involved. I think we also need George and Harry -- and Monday probably works for them because the garden centre is never very busy on a Monday. Oh, and Louise and Trevor. Given that they are both retired, I suspect that pretty much any day works for them.' I nodded. Sarah had clearly given the matter considerable thought. 'By the way, who are George and Harry?' I asked. 'George, Georgina, my old school friend. And Harry, her latest husband. ' 'I presume that you also have a plan as to how this feast day might be celebrated.' 'With a lunch in the garden. I'm sure that's what St Cilla would want. Lots of wine.' 'Not in the wood?' 'No. I think she would like us to be in the sunshine. I would certainly like us to be in the sunshine. And if the long-range forecast is half right, it should be a nice day.' 'You're probably right,' I said. 'On both counts.' On the Sunday before the Feast of St Cilla, I put in a double shift at my keyboard so that I would be free to help Sarah with the preparations the following morning. 'Give me a job,' I said, arriving at Sarah's door bearing half a dozen bottles of Provençal rosé. 'You want something to do? Make me one of your coffees,' Sarah said. 'Seventeenth century breakfast. We may as well start following the script. And then you can give me an opinion on the sauces. I'm following a sort of Tudor model, so we'll start with the more complicated meat and fish dishes; then we'll move on to some simpler meat dishes with bread; and finally fruits and cheeses. Apart from cucumbers, and later potatoes and tomatoes, the Tudors didn't seem to be big on vegetables. 'Oh ... and thank you for the wine. Margret and Jack are bringing a cask of ale. But I suspect that we will be leaning more towards wine.' 'Was wine a 17th century thing?' I asked. 'For the wealthier people. And, today, we are pretending to be wealthy. The main thing was to avoid drinking the water. It couldn't be trusted.' 'Fair enough,' I said. I made a couple of coffees; tasted the sauces (unusual, but absolutely delicious); and helped Sarah to set up the table in the garden. And then, almost before we knew it, midday was upon us. 'Right. I just need to finish off a few things,' Sarah said. 'You are in charge of meeting and greeting.' 'Right-oh.' 'Oh ... and take your clothes off.' 'Take my clothes off?' I said. 'Are you serious?' 'Yes. I've told everyone that it's to be a naked lunch.' 'And they were OK with that?' 'One hundred percent,' Sarah assured me. 'One hundred percent.' Oh, well .... Jack and Margaret were the first to arrive. They arrived clothed. But no sooner had they parked their aged Volvo estate than they began to strip off. In some ways, Margaret was a stereotypical country barmaid. She was cheerful, outgoing, and she had a touch of the maternal about her -- which may have had something to do with her conspicuously ample breasts. Until the Feast of St Cilla, I had, of course, only ever seen her breasts encased in her work attire. Without her work attire -- well, without any attire at all -- her breasts were even bigger than they appeared to be when clothed. And they were curiously lop-sided. Her left breast was a good cup size -- maybe more -- larger than her right breast. Below her breasts, her torso was unexpectedly slim. Yes she had a bit of a tummy, but no more than you would expect from a woman of her age. Below her tummy she had a pronounced and totally bald mons pubis; and, below that, an equally pronounced slot-shaped vulva. (I took all this in in one quick glance.) The Feast of St Cilla 'How are you?' Margaret said. 'I didn't realise that you were Sarah's new neighbour. Well, not until Sarah told me just the other day.' 'I've only recently moved here,' I said. 'Just a few months ago.' Margaret smiled as if she knew something that I too should have known but didn't. Jack without clothes was not unlike Jack with clothes. Either he came from stocky stock, or a lifetime in the hospitality business had left its mark. 'Do you want to give me a hand with the cask?' he said. Louise and Trevor were next to arrive. 'Where should we put our clothes?' Louise asked. 'Well, I'm sure that we can find somewhere for you to leave them inside,' I said. Louise frowned slightly. 'Yes. Although it may be better to leave them in the car. That way, we won't forget them when we go home. That wouldn't do, would it?' 'Well, up to you,' I said. But almost before I had finished saying it, they too were stripping off. I guessed that Louise (who reminded me of one of my old primary school teachers) and grey-bearded Trevor were both in their late fifties or early sixties. And, from the fact they both had all-over tans, I also guessed that they were probably nudists, or naturists, or whatever the currently-accepted term is. (Or maybe they just lay out in their garden as Sarah did.) 'We brought some freshwater crayfish,' Louise said. 'I wasn't sure .... Would St Cilla have been a fan of crayfish?' Would she? I thought about it for a moment or two and then pronounced: 'You know, if they were available, and they tasted good, I think she would have loved them. From what I know of her, I'm pretty sure that she was that kind of girl. Although just my opinion, you understand. Sarah is the authority.' The last to arrive were George and Harry. Like the others, they also elected to strip off there and then and leave their clothes in their car. George -- Georgina -- was, like Sarah, a woman whom the years had not treated unkindly. She was a redhead, and just to confirm that everything matched, she was sporting a rather fetching red landing strip. Harry was slightly younger than George. And seriously endowed. If I said that his flaccid penis hung almost to his knees, I would, of course, be exaggerating. But only slightly. What it would be like when aroused, I could only imagine. With the guests all checked in -- and naked save for their all-terrain sandals and the odd sunhat -- I went and joined them in the garden and made sure that each had a glass of something. I also made sure that they knew where the copious supply of sun protection was. The long-range weather forecast had been spot on; it felt as though it was going to be a hot afternoon. And then Sarah appeared, now naked, of course, and carrying two painted wooden panels, each bearing an image of St Cilla, she of the busy fingers. 'Ladies and gentlemen, may I present today's guest of honour, St Cilla the Diddler.' 'Where on earth did you find those?' I asked, as the assembled guests let out a welcoming cheer. Sarah raised her eyebrows and smiled knowingly. 'From the museum. They're the ones I told you about. I have them on loan for a few days. For, umm, research purposes. I suggested that I might write a monograph.' With the naked guests gathered to admire the (probably) 17th century panels, Sarah and I retreated to the kitchen to gather up the elements of the repast. The first course began with a leg of salt marsh mutton, very slowly braised with onions and oysters, and served with even more oysters, more onions, and slices of lemon. And there was a sauce of red wine, capers, and cinnamon. The Tudors seemed quite keen on cinnamon. Accompanying the mutton were several baked herb-stuffed sea bass, and three boned, rolled, and poached eels with samphire and a white wine sauce and still more lemons. And everything was cooked to perfection. 'Use your fingers,' Sarah advised. 'Or a spoon if you want to be prissy. Forks were not common in St Cilla's day -- well, not in England, anyway.' The second course consisted of the simpler dishes: hashed hare, slow-roasted beef, and Louise and Trevor's freshwater crayfish. And there was the most divine sourdough bread -- at least I assumed that it was sourdough. Jack's ale -- which appeared to have been somehow slightly chilled for the occasion -- was going down a treat with the naked diners. And so too was the chilled rosé. 'Important to keep hydrated on a day like this,' Jack said to no one in particular. Whether by 'a day like this' he meant a feast day or a warm summer day was not clear. 'The ... umm ... paintings,' Louise said. Several of the diners stopped eating and drinking and waited to hear what she was going to say next. 'They'd be quite nice to have on a wall in the bedroom, wouldn't they?' 'Inspiration,' George said with a broad grin. Louise frowned slightly. 'Inspiration? Yes, I suppose so.' And then she added: 'I mean ... if you wander into certain corners of the Internet -- and, occasionally, I do -- it's almost impossible to avoid depictions of masturbation. And yet, when it comes to ... "proper" art' (Louise made little bunny quotes with her fingers) 'you could be excused for thinking that murder and fox hunting are much more common than masturbation. And yet we all masturbate. Don't we?' she said, looking around the table. The assembled company smiled and nodded. Nobody disagreed. 'I think Trevor and I have some of our best sex masturbating.' 'Are you going to give us a demonstration?' Margaret asked. 'Oh? Do you need lessons?' Louise said. 'Well, probably not,' Margaret replied. 'The first time that Jack and I got together, I didn't think that I was ready to go all the way -- as we used to say back then -- so I let him jack off over my tits.' Everyone laughed good-naturedly. 'Yes. Well, as you can see, he had a big enough target. Couldn't very well miss, could he?' It was at about this point that George, who had been paying particularly close attention to one of the panels, pushed her chair back from the table, spread her legs, and tried to mirror Cilla's frozen moment. 'Interesting,' she said. 'Interesting?' Louise echoed. 'Yes. I don't know about the rest of you, but I tend to use my first and second fingers to go inside. Cilla is using her ring finger and her little finger.' Almost as if they had rehearsed it, Margaret and Louise held up their right hands and separated their fingers into a Vulcan salute. And then, almost in unison, their hands disappeared under the table. 'Yes, I see what you mean,' Louise said. 'I think you'll have to push you chair back a bit,' Trevor said. 'From over here, the table's blocking my view.' 'Sorry.' Louise got to her feet, picked up her chair, placed it beside George's chair, and, after a bit of manipulation, slid the tips of her little finger and ring finger into her vagina. 'Better?' 'Much,' Trevor said. 'Thank you. And are you two going to join in?' he said, looking first at Margaret and then at Sarah. 'Would you like us to?' Sarah asked. 'I think St Cilla would want you to.' 'In that case,' Sarah said, 'I suppose it would be rude not to.' And she and Margaret also took their chairs and placed them next to George and Louise's chairs. And got down to business. 'Well, this certainly beats watching synchronised swimming,' Jack muttered. 'Sauce for the gander,' Sarah said. 'Sauce for the gander?' 'I think St Cilla would probably want you chaps to make your own contributions to this little celebration.' Jack laughed. 'I'm afraid I've already started.' 'That's fine,' Sarah said. 'But we need you over here where we can see you.' We all stood up. And, yes, it seemed that we had all made something of a start. 'Much better,' Sarah said. And from the smiles on the faces of the other three women, I can only assume that they agreed. It was strange. Something had just clicked. I guess it was a combination of the excellent company, the excellent food, the copious quantities of wine and ale, and the brilliant warmth of the sun on our naked bodies. Everybody seemed sexually excited and yet, at the same time, surprisingly relaxed and not at all self-conscious. As I glanced along the row of masturbatresses, I couldn't help but reflect on the fact that each of them was different. Different sizes. Different shapes. And each had their own distinctive vulva. Not to mention their own style of getting off. And the same was probably true of us men. Certainly four distinctively different penises. One a little longer; one a little thicker. And, in case you are wondering, Harry's seemed to be about the same size when erect as it was when it had been flaccid. Trevor's, on the other hand, seemed to have doubled in size. You never can tell, can you? For ten minutes of so -- maybe a little longer -- we all masturbated away pretty much in silence (assuming that you don't count the sighs, the odd girlish giggles, and the various little grunts). And then Trevor, who seemed to be getting short of breath, called out, with some urgency: 'Tits or tummy?' Louise smiled. 'Your choice,' she said. I'm not sure whether Trevor actually chose Louise's tummy or whether he just didn't get close enough in time to spray her tits. But, either way, they both seemed happy with the outcome. Harry was next to get across the line. Not long after Trevor had, by accident or design, spunked over Louise's tummy, Harry marched up to George, clasped his hands behind his head, and waited while George finished him off by hand. Some people might have considered that this was cheating. But given that the St Cilla's Feast rules were being created as we went along, perhaps not. Jack's orgasm seemed to take him by surprise. One moment he was cupping his balls with one hand and pumping his cock with the other; and the next he was sounding like a man who had jammed his fingers in a closing door while, at the same time, ejecting at least three impressive ropes of cum. I should mention that each chap's orgasmic eruption was greeted with encouraging cheers from the masturbating ladies. Among the assembled todger tuggers, that left just me. As the new boy, I must confess that I was a little surprised to find myself 'taking part' -- as it were. Nevertheless, I was. And there was no denying that I was deriving more than a little pleasure from the sights, the sounds, the sunshine, and the stimulation provided by my practiced right hand. The only question was: how was I going to finish off? And then Sarah came to my rescue. 'See if you can hit my tongue,' she said. It was all the encouragement that I needed. Within a heartbeat, I felt as if I could have hit her tongue even if it had been in the next county. Oh, oh, oh, kapow! And kapow again. 'Hey! Have you two been practicing?' George said. Sarah just smiled, swallowed, smiled again, and poked out her now cum-free tongue. When the girls had begun their tribute to St Cilla, they had begun slowly, almost methodically. But now, after the fusillade from our side, they had definitely upped the pace. 'What do you say, ladies?' Sarah said. 'Shall we come as one?' 'Count it down,' Louise said. 'Oh, yes!' George said. 'Count us down.' And we did. 'Ten ... nine ... eight ... seven ... six ... five ... four ... three ... two ... one. It was not a totally synchronous finish. But it was pretty damn close. While the girls caught their breath, Jack, like the good publican that he was, walked among us, dispensing wine and ale. And Trevor, his now-wilted cock looking a little reddened by the activities of the past half hour, raised his glass and proposed a toast. 'Ladies and gentlemen, even though my mother was a devout follower of the Church of Rome, I have never had so much as a single second for the sainted do-gooders we are encouraged to admire. But St Cilla is different. St Cilla is -- was -- one of us. Please raise your glasses in thanks to the sainted Cilla, she of the busy fingers.' 'To St Cilla,' a chorus of voices chanted. 'Oh ... and to our hostess,' Trevor said. 'I'm not sure how you came up with this idea, Sarah ... but fucking brilliant.' 'Umm ... fucking?' Louise said. 'No. Let's leave that until we get home. I think I've made quite enough of a contribution to exhibitionism this afternoon.' Later, when the rest of the guests had donned their clothes and headed home, Sarah said: 'Well, I don't think anyone went home hungry. But there is still a lot of food left. Perhaps you could stay for supper?' 'It's a nice idea,' I said. 'And don't get me wrong; the food was fabulous. But I'm not sure that I have any room left.' 'Umm ... you just need a bit of exercise,' Sarah said. 'You just need to work up a bit of an appetite. Come on. The bedroom's this way.' The Feast "Here you go, Kris... Bon appetit!" she says, and giggles a little, as she hands Kris the bottle of mint-basil sauce. Kris squirts a little glob on the end of his penis. His cock twitches slightly as the cool sauce touches it, and you can see his pulse in its rhythmic movement. He has obviously gotten very excited by this part of the meal. The light green sauce contrasts with the dark purple head of his organ, and as it warms it begins to run down the head of his cock slightly. She uses her finger to push the thick sauce down along the side of his cock. Her fingers reach the bottom, and she lets her hand cup his balls. She takes the squeeze bottle and squirts a fine line of sauce along the underside of his cock, starting at his balls and leading up to the head. Now Kris begins to lick his cock, along the line of sauce she just created. She starts with little licks at the base, taking very small amounts of the sauce with each little flick of her tongue. I watch his cock twitch every time her tongue or lips touch him. His eyes are closed, and he is moaning very quietly every few seconds. One of Kris' hands is fondling his balls, the other is caressing his muscular chest and arm. Denise stands and walks over to me, her hand reaching for my cock, encircling it. I pull her close, and bend down to kiss her. I hold her against me with one hand, my hand reaching down to cup her butt cheek, and I fondle her breasts with the other as we kiss. She now uses both hands to stroke my cock and explore my balls as we kiss, for what seems like several minutes. During this time, it is obvious that Steve is enjoying Kris' skill immensely, as his moans of pleasure have gotten louder. Kris has begun to take him all the way into her mouth, and is using a hand to stroke him every time she pulls away. He is getting close. Denise and I stop kissing when we hear him take a deep, ragged breath, and look at the scene. Kris' head is moving up and down on his cock quickly, her hand pulling his skin tight with each stroke. His breathing starts to come in gasps, as he begins to cum into Kris' mouth. We can see the spasm of his body, and hear the quiet grunts he makes with each ejaculation. Kris uses her mouth and hand to stroke him in time with his cumming, and she doesn't stop sucking and stroking him until he is completely spent. Denise's hand never left my cock, though she did stop stroking it. Now, she pulls me over to the table using it as a handle, or maybe a leash. She sits down with her back to Steve's, and pulls my cock to her lips. Kissing the head gently, then licking the tip, she begins to savor my cock. Kris has her arms around Steve, French-kissing him passionately. I can look down to see every detail. Kris' hand is on Steve's cock, gently caressing it. Denise is using her mouth very well. My excitement level is quickly building. I start to respond to her oral sucking rhythm by moving my hips to push my organ deeper into her mouth with each stroke. I can feel the head of my cock push against the back of her throat with each push. Watching Kris and Steve, and feeling Denise's hot mouth and tongue on me bring me close to the edge quickly. Steve has gotten an erection again, and Kris has both hands on his organ as they kiss. I feel it just before I start... the tingling sensation, the heat building and traveling up my shaft. Then, I explode into Denise's mouth. I spasm repeatedly, pumping cum into her in many bursts. I haven't seen her swallow, so she must be holding it in her mouth. Finally spent, she releases my cock and turns. She leans over Steve's shoulder and reaches for Kris' head, pulling her into a kiss. Kris welcomes her lips, but opens her eyes in surprise as she tastes and shares in Denise's mouthful. They French kiss for maybe thirty seconds. Finally, they break the kiss and both women swallow. I lean down and kiss Denise deeply, tasting the remnants of cum in her mouth. Then, I go to get the next part of the meal. As I walk over to the buffet, I see Denise pulling Kris to kiss her over Steve's shoulder again. * * * * * * Cheese course ============= The Feather You are on your bed, lying on your stomach, head on your folded arms, breasts hidden, naked, of course-just out the shower. I am sitting next to you. I take a feather, which I found on the beach when I was sitting there, watching you surf. Getting hard every time I saw you paddle, to catch a perfect wave. Your gorgeous body moving the board gracefully to ride the wave to the very end - the way you like to ride everything. I take the feather and run it across your forehead and down the side of your face, ending at your chin, before moving it up to your ear. I run the tip along the top ridge of your ear, down to your earlobe. I gently stroke it across the back of your ear, and down your neck. I pause there, making sure that I have gently caressed every centimetre of your sensual throat. The feather takes a daring dash down your spine, stopping just short of your beautiful, tight ass, circling the butterfly tattoo a few times, then up, to move gently across your shoulders. It moves backwards and forwards, trailing a silky path across your perfectly tanned back. I slide the feather along the underside of your right arm out to your elbow, then back to your armpit and down the side of your gorgeous breast. You lift your body, wanting me to do more, but I pull the feather back across to your other arm, to your elbow. Back down the side of your other breast. This time sliding down your side to your hip. Across the small of your back and the butterfly to your other hip and up your side, then back down, across your hip and over your ass cheek. I gently stroke it backwards and forwards across your cheek and down, until I reach the top of your thigh. I slide it straight across to the other side, very slowly, so that when it bridges the gap, your legs involuntarily open, just a little. It slides across your other thigh. Back and forth stroking the other cheek all the way to the top. I slide it to the butterfly again, around and around before going down, between the cheeks so that it gently caresses both at the same time - deeply. It slides down, almost between your legs, stopping just short of what is, by now, a very wet pussy. Then back up again. You arch your back, lifting your ass as the feather moves gently, up and down, retracing its sensual path. You then push your pelvis into the bed, to relieve a bit of the ache that is building up, between your legs. I continue my exploration, to less sensitive territory, down your thighs, the back of your knees, your tight calves, one at a time, drawing out the pleasure. I kiss you on the neck as I take one of your shoulders in my hand, and roll you over. I kiss you on the mouth, gently at first, then a little more urgently as I suck your tongue into my mouth and massage it with my own. I let you go and sit up so that I can move the feather back to where it started, across your forehead. You close your eyes as I gently stroke it across your eyelids and your nose, then gently down your cheek and across your lips. I take a little longer there since I know that they are a little more sensitive now. I play the feather along your top lip, then down and across your lower lip. I move the feather down your chin, you tilt your head back giving me access to your throat. I trail the feather from high, near your ear, down your throat to the top of your chest across and back up to the other ear then down a little and across under your chin. Around to the other ear. I slide the feather down your chest, between your breasts and down your stomach to your belly-button. I circle it a few times, then back up. I trail a soft line across and below your breast where it meets your chest. I trail it along the under-swell of your breast, below the nipple. Your nipples harden. But I avoid them. I trail the feather across to the other side, then back across and around your nipple, circling, teasing, but not touching. You bite your bottom lip as the ache builds. I finally give you some release as I stroke the feather, gently over your nipples, first one, then the other. At first softly, to tease, but not to give release. Then a little firmer, around your areola and across the now stone-hard nipple. I move the feather to the other nipple, not wanting it to be left out. You respond again. I decide to give you a little release. I lean forward and take the first nipple into my mouth, sucking gently, at first, then more insistently. A soft moan escapes from you. I run my teeth lightly across it. You arch your back to meet me, gasping as the pleasure takes hold. I move to the other, more for my pleasure than yours. I love your breasts. I want to continue sucking, but I haven't finished what I started, so I lean back, and let the feather continue where I wanted to. It slides down your stomach to your belly button, stopping just short, to trail across to your side and back up to below your arm, across the underside of your breast to the other side and down. It slides down to your upper thigh, avoiding your preferred destination and continues down your leg, along the top to your knee, then your foot. It slides up the inside of your leg to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your legs open wider to allow it to move unhindered to the top, stopping just short of where I can already see the passion escaping, making your lips glisten, weakening my resolve. I move it across to the other thigh, ignoring your arching pelvis and annoyed moans. Moving down the inside of your leg, past you knee to your other foot and back up the ridge of your perfectly tanned leg. I can see the excitement in your eyes as I approach where your legs meet. I continue up your thigh, back to your flat stomach (that alone drives me wild), and criss-cross back down to your mons. Turning slightly, to avoid your weeping slit, and down to caress the sensitive skin between your outer lip and inner thigh. Your knees lift and your legs open, allowing me to see you more intimately than before, weakening me. Your breathing is more rapid now, craving release, but I am not finished - at least, not yet. I move the feather down, to cross over that little bit of flesh separating your pussy from your ass. And I linger, teasing myself as mush as you. I flick it backwards and forwards across that sensitive bridge. I see your hands grabbing the sheet, your knuckles white. The tip of the feather gets wet from the juices oozing out of you. I stop for just a second to put the tip of the feather in my mouth - to taste you. It's something I have been wanting to do for too long. I can see your impatience growing, so I replace the feather against your hot skin, sliding it around the other lip, and back up to the top. I can see your clit, already hard, and glowing, demanding attention. I stroke the feather around it, teasing - before gently sliding it across the angry nub. Your reaction is immediate. You lift your pelvis, trying to increase the pressure. Your one hand is now on my leg, your nails digging into my inner thigh, a delicious contrast to the heat building in me. I lose control. I drop the feather - it's done its job - and lean forward, to gently kiss you just above your slit and down the side to the paw tattoo, where I stop momentarily to pay a little attention to the mark I have come to dream about. I kiss it gently and run my tongue lightly across it, at last. I have waited so long. I move back up and flick my tongue across your clit. Your hands are in my hair, pulling, trying to end the ache. I won't be rushed. I slide my tongue past your clit, down your beautiful clean-shaven pussy, tasting the abundance of your juices as I go, driving me almost as wild as you already are. My tongue reaches the bottom of its path, at your entrance. Pausing, before penetrating you, deep - tasting you hungrily, as if you are the last meal I will have (it would be enough to last me a lifetime). I flatten my tongue and lick back up to your clit, capturing all the juices I can before settling on your clit. I suck it into my mouth, gently, while running my tongue over it, backwards and forwards. I slide two fingers inside you. They slip in easily, lubricated by the abundance of juices, yours and mine, mixing freely. My other hand moves up to you breast squeezing it before gripping your nipple between my fingers, and rolling it between them, gently, then a little harder, gently, then harder. The fingers inside you slide up until they feel the soft spongy spot on the front wall, and there they focus, on your g-spot, stroking over and over while I consume you. I stop occasionally to push deep inside you, as if hoping to reach your heart. Your back is arched. Your moans become louder and more desperate as you near orgasm. I can feel it is near. I move my hand from your breast, and use my 2 fingers to hold your slit open. Allowing me to alternate between sucking your clit and running my tongue, firmly, down to your entrance and back up, while steadily fingering you with the other hand. Your body stiffens. I suck your clit into my mouth, hard, while rubbing my two fingers backwards and forwards. My other hand, back up to squeeze your nipple firmly through your orgasm. Your juices flow freely, and I can't get enough. Until you flop back down, spent, perspiring, satisfied. The Feather Fresh from the shower you walk into your bedroom. A towel wrapped around you -- covering your breasts but barely reaching below the juncture of your thighs. Not that this matters. You are alone. Or so you think. You sit on the edge of the bed and then ... as it a slight sound? Was it a movement in the air? Was it a familiar scent wafting elusively into your awareness. A hand closes over your mouth and a voice whispers in your ear. 'Do not scream, do not cry out.' Strangely, you are not worried. The voice seems somewhat familiar ... but you are not entirely sure. A dark silk scarf slips down over your eyes and the ends are tied behind your head. With your sense of sight removed other senses are heightened and you hear the sounds of movement in the room. Are you alone with one person, or more? You wonder. Will you ever know? Is your captor a man or a woman? You are not completely sure. The hand removed from your mouth takes your hand and raises you up to your feet. You feel the towel being tugged, released and then tossed aside. Silence. You wait, standing there. Naked. You know that you are being watched, observed, scrutinised. You know that your body is not one which would grace the pages of the fashion magazines strewn in the corners of your room. You do not have the discipline or the insane drive for self deprivation to achieve that kind of waif-like appearance. Yet you wonder if you will be found beautiful desirable. All you can hear is a low 'mmmmm' of appreciation, tinged with desire. Without the benefit of sight you do not know where your captor is, or what will happen next. The sudden wet teasing of tongue and lips on your breasts brings your nipples into immediate erect attention. A finger tracing from the top of your head down, down, down, across your nose, over your lips -- with which you offer a kiss as the finger passes, down over your throat and into the valley between your breasts. The finger continues tracing downwards, dipping briefly into your belly button, then continuing the journey. You spread your legs slightly as the finger traces a line down across your mons then slides between the moistened lips of your pussy. A moment's hesitation. It is as if the finger is held there, cannot continue its journey, as if it longs to stay and play and tease, yet down it continues, running along the inside of your thigh until it reaches your ankle. The up the other leg the finger climbs, revisiting each place which was encountered on the downward journey. Pausing where pauses seem to add to the trembling which is beginning to overtake your body. When reaching the crown of your head again there is another pause, another short time of waiting, another exquisite moment of awareness of being observed and adored. A hand takes yours once again and leads you across towards the bed, lying you down in the centre of the softness there. Your arms and legs are arranged spreadeagled, each pointing towards a corner of the bed -- and then you realise why. Silk scarves are tied around your wrists and ankles -- not too tight that they would damage or hurt you in any way, but not too loose so that you could remove them by your own will. You realise from the sounds and movement that each scarf has been tied to a post at each of the compass points of the bed, the corners defining the space in which you lie. You are now more captive and more vulnerable, yet you are not afraid. The gentleness so far reassures you that this will be an offering for mutual pleasure. You lie there, open and exposed. You can feel that your breasts are pointing to the ceiling and that your arousal will be evident in the hardness of your nipples. You can feel that the light touches even to this point have made your pussy begin to react, and that your legs spread wide will be revealing the glistening wetness there. You wait, wondering what it it that your captor will do for you, to you, with you. A light touch across your nipple. It was not tongue or lip or any other body part. A light touch across the other nipple. If it is possible both are now even more erect than before. The touch continues, swirls, teases. You realise that your captor has a feather, and with this feather is sweeping the tendrils across your body. Across you cheeks the feather glides. Your face and throat are painted with patterns unseen yet so vividly felt. The feather swirls around and around your breasts, drawing lines of ascent over and over again upwards to your nipples, circumnavigating your flesh, spiralling up and down. You have never had such long and loving and careful attention given to your breasts, and they begin to ache with longing for a firmer touch. Long slow brush strokes sweep down each of your arms, easing between each finger then tickling slightly as it runs up again on the inside of your arm. The feather continues to dance across your body, and your writhing makes the patterns of the dance spin into loops and whirls. A pirouette across and around and into your belly button is in counterpoint to the broad swathes brushed across your belly. The feather is enticing you into waves of passion, lighting you up from the bed to which you are secured. It as if you are hovering several inches above the bed -- you are so enthralled with the simple light touch of this one feather. Down your thighs the feather slides to entice your ankles and dive between your toes. Up, up again lightly touching the soft skin of your inner thigh. It is all you can to prevent the cries from echoing around the room. Ecstasy. All from the lightest touch upon your body. Knowing the one area of your exposed body which has not yet received attention, as far as possible, you bend your knees and draw your thighs a little further apart. Your pussy is like a precious lotus flower, each movement creates the sensation and appearance of a petal opening. With a tenderness which reveals the love with which the feather is dancing attendance upon you, the tendrils begin to touch. Light caresses. Barely contacting and yet each small movement sends shivers through your whole body. Up and down, up and down the feather drifts. It is a gentle rhythm, matching the beating of her heart. And that beat her captor knows and can see for her naked body is pulsing with the beat, a sound almost audible alongside the heaviness of her breathing. Yet, unlike the smooth transition of the feather across her skin as it had traversed all other parts of her body, the feather's progress is now slower and slightly impeded. For it has become soaked with her juices. She is wet with desire and this desire has seeped out to flood the lips of her pussy, and has soaked into the feather which is itself increasing the effect of the waves rising within. Around her exposed and raised clitoris the feather spins and circles, for a moment, for an age, for an eternity, the only touch upon her body if the tuft of the feather teasing and tweaking her clitoris .. over and over and over again. The tsunami of desire rises. The feather has down its job. The teasing and tantalising touch has brought her to the peak and the waves finally crash onto the shore, flooding and churning. She writhes in ecstasy and moans with absolute pleasure -- all from the touch of a simple feather. What will he do with this treasure. She senses, she hears that he has taken the feather and a small sound alerts her to the fact the he is smelling her arousal on this created treasure, formed from her pleasure, formed from own body's offering to him? Perhaps he will keep it as a reminder of this moment -- to take and waft beneath his nose whenever the thought of her is once again to be allowed to overwhelm him. As she lies there, satiated, yet still trembling. Satisfied, yet still hoping for more ... she waits. What will come next? The Feather Duster We were in a hotel room. It’s had a beautiful view and was decorated really nicely, but that’s not what we were focusing on!! In the centre of the room was a large king-size four-poster bed. We smirked at each other, knowing how much we’d enjoy it! We moved closer together and kissed deeply. As we kissed we slowly started to undress each other. We moved to the bed and lay side by side, still kissing. You moved me onto my back and spread my arms. You produced some strips of silky material and tied my wrists to the top posts. Then you moved down and I parted my legs for you. You tied my ankles to the other posts. Then you produced the feather duster. I gasped in anticipation, and smiled with longing up at you. You started by gliding it down each of my arms and around my neck. Then you worked from my ankles up to the knees and down again. Then all the way up to my thighs where you teased my inner thighs. Next you brushed over my upper chest and moved slowly down to tease my breasts, but avoiding the nipples. My breathing was getting heavy now. You pulled a couple of feathers out of the duster and used one on each breast to circle my nipples until they were aching and hard. Then you slowly dragged each feather over each nipple, bringing them to their peak. The pleasure was so intense it hurt and I longed for more friction, more pressure. By now my cunt was wet and aching. I felt close to orgasm already. I tugged at my restraints a little, hoping I could free a hand so I could touch myself. You smiled at me and picked up the duster again. Dragging it over my aching tits you slid it down over my belly. Then you started to draw little circles on my inner thighs, moving gradually up towards my cunt. Eventually you slid it lightly over my wet slit. I moaned with pleasure and arched my hips to meet the sensation. You slid it up and down several times as I moaned and writhed with pleasure. You knew I needed more. With one hand you parted my labia, exposing some of the inner flesh, and my hard clit. You slid the duster over my exposed flesh. My inner muscles rejoicing at the attention. My moans got louder. But still I needed more. You focused the duster on my open slit and let a finger gently rest on my clit. I cried out in pleasure and frustration. The tension was almost unbearable, and yet I didn’t want it to end. You took the duster away and, with your finger still resting on my clit, you slid it over my neglected nipples. I gasped again. Bringing it back down my body you put it back on my dripping cunt and started to move it back and forth again. This time you let your finger move lightly, slowly over my clit. Flicking and circling it as it grew and grew. You rubbed a little harder now, the duster still teasing my slit, and I came suddenly, the tension too much to keep in. You threw the duster to one side and replaced it with your tongue. You slid your tongue into me, probing and circling as you entered. Your finger rubbed hard and fast on my sensitive clit. I came again. Deeper this time, and harder. I screamed and bucked against your mouth. You kept licking and rubbing as I kept cumming, moaning loudly and breathing hard. The Feather Duster Hair tussled in a fashion that dictates seduction. Glitter pins softly placed where his fingers can easily pull them out upon desiring freedom with me. Headband wide with little hints of sparkle sit atop my glittered pinned hair that he will no doubt notice upon entering the home this evening. Eyes traveling, I enjoy his heated stare at my very short, yet tailored black fitted skirt and white ruffles underneath. All this feminine lure is tied with a wide banded apron and pronounced bowlike on my waist over my behind and maid like short skirt. I am wearing a white blouse; see through shear with a push-up French bra that exposes my erect nipples completely. Discovering his manly shaft growing by the developed tightness in his slacks, I relish in the pleasure that he is lusting the thought of touching me all over. I notice that his eyes travel down my sexy body to the black meshed seemed hose and garters that cover my tiny thong string panty that he knows is drenched by now! Finishing touches are the spiked high black heels with maid-like bows that are on my pampered manicured feet he absolutely adores. After he excitedly consumes all of my standing feminine seduction, he ventures over for a touching embrace. I look at him and suggest that he let me finish my chores while he unwinds some from the drive home! He steps back and smiles and turns upstairs to change. I am bustling all over the place with a feather duster in hand. I am humming while dusting; making my teasing presence known. Reaching the top of the stairs I see him looking at me with the eyes of a tiger in heat. I make sure to pass him and bend over to reach one of the feathers that dusted away from me while cleaning. How wonderful to feel his energy all over me as he walks over and places his arms around my waist; pulling me closer to him. He kisses my neck in that special spot that makes me tingle below for him to continue. He drenches my ear with a moist wetness along with a furrowed breathing that takes me over and has me in a state of total surrender and desirable frenzy. I have contemplated this scenario since this afternoon. This excitement has placed me in a melting state of mind. I am forbidden to touch myself and my body before surprise scenarios or events we plan together. This heightened pleasure zone I am in has me wanting and deliciously anticipating his touch. Placing his arms on my waist, he unties my apron bow and turns my body to face him. He kisses me. My erect nipples projecting through my shirt. He only has to look at them, lick them gently and I will squirm in delight. Unbuttoning my blouse slowly; one button at a time; he sees my body yearning for him. Again he licks gently with his tongue now, circling just enough to tease me. I am moaning quietly. He circles each nipple again; slowly and nibbles with a tiny bite. The nibbling, sucking, flicking with his finger is driving me insane with desire for more! Rubbing my entire body with his hands and careful never to touch any areas of seductive thirst or entry; he takes his time exploring my legs, arms, neck, hair, and curvy butt. He has this way of making me feel so sexy by the way he studies me with his eyes as he carefully gazes, grazes, and touches me lightly. Feeling his manhood rubbing my backside makes me wetter than wet; and wildly wanting him! My mind is begging for him to make me his treasure once more. I am putty in his hands. I am in a melting moment of anticipating bliss. He has an inviting energy that captivates me like no other has before. He intuitively knows how to handle me. It is this dance I want forever! I am sensually dusted as he softly caresses by body; touched and teasingly feathered by his heart; completely lost in his mind; and sexually devoured and polished by his manhood. I am special. I feel it. I intuitively know it. I am his. The Feather of Love It always starts out the same; Jody's lover will hold her down and start tickling her. She will scream and laugh loudly begging him to stop, soon she is laughing so hard the tears are streaming down her face and she can't even catch her breath. Suddenly the laughing stops as she is seized with a tumultuous orgasm. What could cause such a strange dichotomy of the senses? Jody doesn't know and she really doesn't care or realize how strange her actions are. Some would say it is the feeling of being powerless as her boyfriend holds her captive and as she gives up control of her body to him, it allows her to achieve orgasm. Others might note that when she was a child her brother would hold her down and tickle her until sometimes she would wet herself. It is this same feeling of trying to keep control, not to urinate and then loosing that same control that allows orgasm in some women. Jody would surely disagree with this thought, as she was a child when her brother tickled her and did not achieve orgasm this way until she was in her twenties. Jody had always been a sexually active adult just not an orgasmic one. Having never had an orgasm, it was a case of not knowing what she was missing. She had sex because that is what girls of her age did and in reality, it turned her on to see boys getting off with her. As soon as she was in college, she quickly learned the power her body gave her over boys. As far as Jody was concerned, this was much more enjoyable than any orgasm could be. She felt like a queen as she granted sexual favors to boys that earned them. A fun first date might earn a boy a hand-job but usually it took more to get any of her clothes off. Jody was by no way a schemer, she did not have a set of rules to grant sexual favors by. It was simply if she felt the boy pleased her in some way she returned the favor. She was not considered an 'easy' girl but she was available and had as many dates as she desired. She met John through her roommate Susan who was the opposite of Jody. Susan and John went together exclusively all through school and they were inseparable. He seemed to be always in their room and the three of them did many things together. One day John was holding down Susan while he tickled her, Susan laughing asked Jody to help her. Jody jumped on John trying to help Susan. John released Susan only to grab Jody and start to tickle her. As she laughed hysterically, Jody pleaded for Susan to help save her but Susan quickly showed her loyalty to John by helping him hold down Jody. Now trapped and at John's mercy she laughed until out of breath and suddenly it changed from fun and games to sex as Jody had her first ever orgasm. Soon after the couple quit the game and Jody excused herself and fled to the bathroom. She sat alone wondering what had just happened to her. She went from torture to the most wonderful feeling in the blink of an eye. Having never had an orgasm she had no idea what had happened but she knew it was sexual and she knew she wanted more. Of course, Jody could not expect Susan's boyfriend to be giving this feeling to her she knew this wasn't right. She had to figure how to get her dates to give her this feeling. It didn't take Jody long to learn that if you tickle a boy he will tickle you back. She also quickly learned which of her dates would just give her a tickle and which would take control of her body and tickle mercilessly. The boys who were smart enough to realize it was more than a game, that it was foreplay became the only ones that Jody dated. These were the boys rewarded with Jody's body as a thank you. As Jody could not achieve orgasm she never masturbated much, it was just more frustration than pleasure. However, after learning how to cum from being tickled she now wanted more. Everyone knows you can't tickle yourself but Jody began to recognize the feeling of release one must give themselves to obtain a true climax. Slowly Jody began to play with herself concentrating on that moment when you just let go and cum. With practice soon she was able to give herself an orgasm and not long after that she found she could also cum while having sex. This was nice to do but not nearly as nice as the feeling while being tickled. Now as a senior Judy has began contemplating her future and she realizes it is hazy at best. She still has not chosen a career and as shaky as the workplace is has no idea what she will do. As far as her love life, having played the field although school she has no steady boy friend and as yet never given a thought about a husband. Jody thinks she is still young and is not worried about these things. The only things she knows for sure is her future husband whoever he may be will be a tickler.