I should probably put a disclaimer here, in case someone reads it a year from now and thinks it’s representative of erotica more widely. It’s not – it’s a contribution to the #EuphOff currently being held by the lovely Jane Gilbert of Behind the Chintz Curtain. I think I failed to relax sufficiently and continued to take my writing way too seriously. Sorry! Still, hopefully this is sufficiently filled up with warm, salty, appalling food metaphors…
Georgie was tired of kale. Juiced, sautéed, or even made into tasty little crisps with lemon and cumin – none of these made her salivate the way she used to.
She needed something to fill her up. Luckily, The Broth Boys showed up just in time.
The salty aroma that emanated through their door tormented her every time she headed out for salad. Some days, she lingered, watching Broth Boy #1 ladling his rich, salty liquid into the cups of a dozen waiting women. She was jealous. She wanted to feel his goodness warming her insides.
But a leaf-based lunch was all she knew.
One day, she was heading back from the gym, when the heavens opened. Her pristinely groomed hair began to frizz almost instantly. Georgie shrieked, and in her panic, crashed headlong into Broth Boy #1, a vision of beauty in the drizzle with a tray of steaming samples.
God, he smelt good. Like skin musk mixed with a hint of chicken.
He thrust into her hand before she realised what was happening. She clutched at his generous gift, desperate to feel it on her tongue.
‘Drink it,’ he urged. ‘It’s good for you.’
She closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and swallowed. As she did, she imagined him tearing off her silk blouse, pouring his superfood between her pert globes and laving them with his eager tongue.
‘You should come inside,’ he said, as she returned to something resembling earth. ‘You’re getting wet.’
He was right. She was. So wet. And lost at ‘come inside.’
She followed him through the door, and he flipped the sign in the window from open to closed. The lunchtime rush was over and her next meeting wasn’t for thirty-three more minutes. They had all the time in the world.
Inside, he stripped her as efficiently as he would a chicken carcass, and urged her to bend over one of the rustic wooden tables. Her tender nipples grazed its aspirational surface.
His fingers explored the warm wetness of her aching grotto, testing her for readiness. When he deemed she was sufficiently tender, he prodded her with his impressive member. Broth Boy #1 was all about cock in more ways than one and she knew immediately that this was one lunch that would leave her full and satisfied.
She melted into him like the square of 90% cocoa chocolate she allowed herself once a month and he gripped her hips and pounded harder, drawing her further and further onto his scalding rod as if she were a rotisserie bird. As he reached between her legs to anoint her with her juices, she finally boiled over, hissing like a pan without a lid.
He let her rest, like a good steak, and their combined secretions ran down her thighs like fine gravy.
The door of the restaurant slammed and she gasped as Broth Boy #2 came into view.
Her lover smiled down at her.
‘Fancy trying the beef next?’ he asked.
You can find links to all the other #EuphOff entries here…
*wipes eyes* LOVE THIS SO, SO MUCH! Are you sure you’re not the writer behind Fifty Shades of Chicken? And the cocoa solids reference? Pure. Genius. Jane xxx
Thanks! And thanks for setting up the whole challenge – it’s been a lot of fun! xx
This is so good! So many cock/chicken references. I loved the table’s ‘aspirational surface’. Skewering bad erotica, foodies, and hipsters at the same time – no small feat!
Thanks, lovely – i didn’t start out intending to shred hipster culture like a, er, chicken carcass, it just kind of happened!
“…onto his scalding rod as if she were a rotisserie bird”!
Inspired, my dear!