FOOD FOR THOUGHT
Chapter 1 – Strawberries and Cream
He stares in fascination, transfixed at the bottom of the stairs, unable to get his lungs working properly. The devil in is his kitchen, a teasing, evil, playful, mocking devil. The devil is wearing Prada … he knows it, because he can see the red strip running up towards the elegant neck. He knows that shirt, he knows that red strip with the word Prada running along its length, he knows it has more than the three buttons currently keeping it together. He knows that neck, long and taut and elegant, watches as the Adam's apple bobs on the swallow, gaze sweeping downwards to where swelling skin disappears under white cotton.
His eyes flicker up to those eyes, tawny-green and teasing, sucking his very soul out of every pore he possesses, draining him of movement, sapping his will to do anything but stare. His eyes are drawn to the hand, long and elegant and graceful, watches as those slim, playful fingers salaciously select a berry, red and full and juicy, watches as the red succulent fruit rises slowly to meet equally succulent lips. Watches them part, allowing him a quick glimpse of white teeth, watches as those sensational lips softly curve around the shape, hears the crisp slicing of teeth through the very core, stares as the lips slide smoothly over the incision, hears the ever so slight, totally scandalous, sucking of juices.
Watches as those enigmatic lips curve in a taunting smile, helplessly follows the half-bitten fruit as it travels downwards, delicately held between nimble fingers, watches as its dipped in a bowl of cream. Glazed eyes follow it back upwards, past the white of the shirt, past the red of the neckline, past the gilded skin, all the way back to moist, pouting lips. Then the tongue emerges, slowly, pink and hesitating, it hovers, seems to falter, then swipes at the cream, cleaving some away, it slowly retreats, past half-open lips, leaving a small trail where it brushes the upper one, disappears and the lips close over it. A moment later the tongue emerges once more, but only for a second or two, slowly sweeping from dimpled corner to cupid's bow before once again disappearing.
Lips part and close around cream-encrusted berry, and his glazed eyes watch as it slowly emerges, creamless, bright scarlet against pink fingernails, pink core against scarlet lips, watches as their playful curve increases, watches as fingers and half-eaten fruit rise above the face, watches as the face turns upwards, lips part in anticipation and the berry is lowered into waiting mouth.
Slowly the head turns back to face him, the slow working of jaws creating subtle ripples of muscles down the long, graceful neck. Fingers move down and out, little green stem held delicately, then they open, ever so slightly and the emerald stalk twists and rotates in a downward spiral till it hits the counter … it lies there, immobile, discarded.
Movement draws his eyes upwards once more, fingers delicately roll, discard, then select a second berry. The hand rises slowly, moves southwards and his gaze follows. Watches as the hand slows, almost but not quite grazes the shirt-covered hip, moves further down till it reaches the bare skin of elongated thighs. Hand pauses, moves in a circular motion then brings the berry down till it touches skin. The hand moves sulkily, hesitatingly, leaves a glistening trail of moisture along the thigh, a serpentine path which stops just short of the knee. The hand slowly slides upwards again, the new path of moisture curving perilously close to the inner thigh. Then the hand lifts again, dips the imprisoned berry in the cream and unhurriedly holds it out towards him, the hand now making slow, teasing come-hither movements.
He wonders if he's got 911 on speed dial, because right now he thinks he needs a bus … one of those red and white ones with flashing lights and oxygen and fibrillation kits ….
