I am making a tarte tatin for dessert tonight. A small soiree with friends. Wine, a warming stew and a suitable French delicacy for dessert. It is funny how smells and tastes can bring back memories in a way that a photograph or film cannot. When I taste tarte tatin I am transported to a hot summer’s evening a few years ago.
London’s hottest summer. The air in my flat was thick, sticky. No movement at all and no reprieve in sight. It was the first summer I spent with my original lover. We would arrange to meet in the evenings, after work. He would leave early to go shopping. I would cycle home, shower (a cold one usually) and dress as a mistress should – beautiful lingerie and sensual, easy to undo dresses. That thrill of waiting for the doorbell to ring, buzzing him in and waiting for his tall figure to appear. He would always enter and leave quietly, not to draw attention to himself.
He took such a great delight in preparing delicious three course dinners for me, accompanied by the best wines and dessert wines. He loved to cook, to choose a combination of flavours, textures and colours that would come alive in my kitchen. As he chopped, whisked, heated, I would sip a cool glass of white, watching him, chatting, listening to jazz. It was such a wonderful sense of being looked after, letting go and allowing someone else to decide for me – what I would eat, drink, taste. I loved it. When I was so aroused by simply watching him, being near him, I would stand behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and let my fingers slip inside his jeans, teasing and distracting him from the task at hand.
Often, the food would be simmering in the pot and he would abandon it to follow me into the bedroom where we would strip naked, bare skin on bare skin, our bodies only slightly hotter than the summer’s night. Sex with my original lover was a deeply sensual experience. He would take the time to touch every part of my body, not allowing me to touch him and driving me wild with anticipation. When every hair tingled at the sheer brushing of his hand over my stomach, he would let me pleasure him. I loved to take him in my mouth. He was beautiful, tasted good and loved me licking him to the point of climax, but to then withhold and sit astride him, mounting him instead. Our pre-dinner fucks were intense bursts of heat and energy, a taster of what was to follow.
We would sit at the dining table, candles, wine, he wearing only his underwear, me wearing a silk slip, no knickers. If you have never tried it, then I strongly recommend eating dinner like this. The food is just a pause, a break between fucks. We would return to the bedroom after each course, fucking each other until we came again and again.
Dessert was always my favourite course. He excelled at desserts. The night he made a tarte tatin was one of the most intense nights we had spent together. That sticky hot sweetness with a tangy edge. It is a strange phenomenon, but it seemed that all my senses were heightened after climaxing. Every bite, lick and swallow of the tarte was magnified. Perhaps your body is more receptive to other pleasures when it is in that wonderful state of relaxation and tingling tension.
After dessert we withdrew to the bedroom, his cock was already erect for our grand finale. He lay back on the bed, keeping eye contact with me as I climbed onto it, standing above him looking down. I let my hand touch my sex, and slowly began to stroke my clit, masturbating myself standing over him. He watched, smiling and eventually pulled me down towards him. I knelt over his face and he lifted his head so his tongue could touch my cunt. Burying his tongue into me he seemed to consume me like one might a ripe fig. Pushing his tongue inside, into the soft flesh and savouring its juices. I arched back reaching for his cock with my hand, massaging him to the same rhythym as he licked me. The orgasm came swiftly, our senses already so raw after the many courses and climaxes. I love the sensation of orgasms in quick succession – the first one feels like a dam has been broken and after that they wash over me like the waves of a tsunami, all consuming, almost drowning. I feel them in my fingers and toes and hair.
That was an intensely sensual night, in so many ways. Such a simple combination of pleasures, but explosively erotic. The best tarte tatin I’ve ever had.