The Orgasm Gourmet
Chapter 1: Lena Wriggles her Finger

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Mult, Consensual, Cheating, Wife Watching, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Slow,

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: Lena Wriggles her Finger - A mysterious, sophisticated married woman discovers she needs to take a lover to have great orgasms. She needs the excitement of two men to bring her to her sexual peak. She is delicious enough that she manages to pull it off, reveling in the thrill of even making her husband eat her creampies without realizing it.

“I like the way you handle a knife,” she said.

I was chopping carrots, and her comment was almost enough to make me miss my aim and slice into my own finger. Because I knew she wasn’t really talking about the knife.

We were students in a cooking class, and we had been paired together by the instructor from the beginning of the course. It was a wonderful coincidence, because otherwise I doubt that I ever would have gotten this close to her, much less have had a conversation with her. I realized she must live near me, because I had seen her exactly three times: once jogging, once at the local grocery store, and once sitting in a Starbucks. Each time was like being hit by a thunderbolt. As my eyes took in her gorgeous smile, then her erect posture and finally her long slender legs, I would find myself staring, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Each time I saw her I found my mind racing, wondering if I could make a play, find any excuse to meet her. But she seemed quite aloof and unapproachable, as many women with her striking beauty are. She also had a particular air of mystery, which made her even more desirable and unapproachable.

She was like one of those delectable ‘total babes’ that seem to have stepped out of a magazine, and who will be just as accessible as those models. So you can imagine my surprise and delight when she showed up in my Italian cooking class, and became my partner no less. I still need to thank the master chef for that.

During our first session, she hardly spoke to me, and my lame attempts to start a conversation were met with a polite but chilly smile. She had a faint European accent, but I couldn’t place it, and I was too intimidated even to ask what country she came from.

Luckily for me, by the third week she started to warm up. We joked about the class, and I found that she had a great sense of humor. I found her less reserved, though still reluctant to talk about anything personal. I had no idea what she did, nor where she lived, nor (most important) whether or not she was single.

It was during these classes that I began to fall for her in a big way. It was June, and she was wearing sleeveless blouses. Out of the corner of my eye, I would study the long line that her slender arms made from her shoulders all the way down to her delicate, sensitive fingers. Every once in a while, while cooking together, our arms would brush against one-another, and it would send an electric thrill through my entire body.

Her look was Italian, though it was clear from her limited knowledge of the Italian vocabulary that Italy was not her home country. She had wide cheekbones, full lips, and the sultry, luscious expression that one associates with the greatest Italian beauties. In one respect, she was different: while Italian women seem to gravitate toward the plump side, she was wonderfully slim, almost like a teenager, but with enough subtle curves to show that she was a woman (I found out later that she was 25, but she looked younger). In the end, it was her smile that captured me. It was so full and genuine, I found myself doing everything I could to bring it out. I was definitely hooked.

Little did I know that the cooking class was having a similar effect on her. Weeks later, she told me that she had hardly noticed me until I started chopping vegetables. Imagine how I felt when, in her soft voice, she described how ‘I was watching your strong hands handling the different knives so decisively, slicing the vegetables, and massaging the dough ... and I began to fantasize about those hands on me.” She knew very little about me, but she realized that she wanted to be handled firmly by hands like that.

But she knew how to keep me off balance. Just when I was convinced that she had no interest in me whatsoever, she would come out with a provocative question, which never failed to take me by surprise. After her comment about my handling of the knife in Monday’s class, I got up the nerve to invite her for a cappuccino after class. To my surprise she accepted, and although she still kept her distance, I managed to get her to talk a bit about herself.

What I learned was at first discouraging. She had been married for almost a year, to a prominent Washington lawyer, Donald Major, whose name I saw in the paper from time to time. My heart sank. He was a big shot. But as we continued with our banter, she hinted flirtatiously that he was not enough for her.

Sensing an opportunity, I decided to be direct.

“Are you not satisfied?”

She stared at me, her cool green eyes boring into mine. After a long pause, and in a voice so soft I could barely hear it, she said “I wonder if any man could really satisfy me. A man should not wind a woman up if he’s not able to finish the job.”

I could hardly believe my ears. Things were accelerating fast, in an unexpected direction. I decided to be honest in return.

“Well, if that’s what you need, it shouldn’t be too hard. A girl like you only needs to wiggle her little finger and she can have any man she wants.”

She acknowledged my compliment with an ironic smile on those sensuous lips. Again she paused, staring at me intently. Assessing me.

“But you see, I need a very special man. He has to be always available, ready to come to me at a moment’s notice.” Despite her playful smile, her voice seemed quite sincere, even passionate.

I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I decided that boldness was called for.

“Then today is your day, because you can call me anytime, anywhere. I’ll be there.”

“Is that so?” Her eyes were wide now and were now practically boring into mine.

“Absolutely. I am at your service at a moment’s notice, milady.”

Following her lead, I used an ironic tone to indicate that I might be joking. But I was not joking, and her eyes seemed to spark at my use of chivalrous language.

“My card,” I intoned, as I passed her one of my business cards.

She studied it carefully. The card informed her that I’m an architect, and showed the address of my home/studio, along with my office and cell phone numbers. She raised her eyebrow a fraction of an inch, and casually slipped my card into her stylish handbag – it looked like a Mark Jacobs. Moments later, with one last heart-stopping smile in my direction, she was out the door, leaving me there with a bill to pay and a foolish smile on my face.

A famous photographer once described how it feels to be on a shoot with Marilyn Monroe. He said she exuded a raw sexuality that made every man there feel that, if only all the other men would leave the room, something extraordinary would happen. Without being so overtly sexual, Lena – for that was her name – made me feel the same way.

In fact, forget Marilyn Monroe. If given the choice, I was far more attracted to this slim, cosmopolitan young woman, with her air of mystery and her elegant manners. She had me by a chain, and all she had to do was yank it.

And that’s exactly what she did, much sooner than I expected. At exactly 8:02 a.m. the following morning, just as I was sitting down to a cup of coffee, pondering the ingredients for a smoked salmon omelet, a text message popped up on my iPhone:

Come now 832 Q Street

I hesitated. Was it Lena? I didn’t know her phone number, but the address was in upscale Georgetown, only ten minutes walking distance from my studio. It had to be her. My hesitation didn’t last long, because moments later I found myself and walking up the hill in the direction of Q Street.

I had no meetings scheduled that morning, so if this was a wild goose chase, there would be nothing lost. I wondered what she wanted. Maybe just to test me, to see if I would really come? Or maybe to help her move a piece of furniture? Draw up a plan for her garden?

Possibly. But foremost in my mind were the words ‘come now’ in the context of what she had revealed last night. Was it a double entendre? I would find out soon enough.

When I was a few houses away, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Another sms:

door unlocked come up stairs

Wow. Blood rushed to my face and to my cock at the same time. I was flushed with excitement and a little bit of fear, but clearly whoever does the thinking for me below the waist had concluded that moving furniture was not going to be on the menu. By the time I arrived at her door, I was half erect, and I was glad I had worn some relatively stiff pants, so my condition would not be obvious.

I opened the door without knocking, and found myself in a simple but elegantly appointed foyer, leading past an even more elegant living room to a polished hardwood staircase. Making sure to allow my footsteps to be heard, I mounted the stairs, resisting the temptation to take them two at a time. At the top of the stairs there were only three doors. The first two were shut. But at the end of a short hallway decorated tastefully with fin de siècle paintings, a door stood slightly ajar. A few strides brought me to the door, and slowly I pushed it open.

Lena lay on the bed, with her eyes closed. The bedclothes were rumpled, only half covering her charming body. And her sheer nightgown revealed more than it hid, with her shoulders all but bare, and the gentle swell of her breasts generously open to my gaze. A thousand possibilities raced through my mind. Was her husband on a business trip? Had she really called me here for sex? My circulatory system was sure it knew the answer, since my heart pumped more blood downward, increasing the pressure on my already straining pants.

She didn’t stir, but I doubted that she was truly asleep. I took a few steps toward her, making sure that she could hear my footsteps on the wooden floor, then hesitated. Was she asleep? I was full of self-doubt. This seemed crazy.

Then, with her eyes still closed, Lena lifted her torso, raising her face toward me. And, ever so slightly, she pursed her lovely lips. There has never been a more subtle but obvious invitation for a kiss.

Thanking heaven that I hadn’t eaten the smoked salmon, I sat on the edge of the bed, and leaned toward her. I could smell her. She smelled like a woman who has just woken up. It wasn’t the scent of soap and shampoo, but her body’s own lovely perfume that I detected. The scent of a woman in heat.

My lips grazed hers, softer than the finest silk. She responded with the slightest pressure imaginable, an infinitesimal opening, an invitation. Gently as possible, I stroked her mouth with my own, exploring her lips millimeter by millimeter. Then I held her head in my hands, and I covered her entire face with delicate near-kisses. She arched her neck upward, and rewarded my efforts with sweet little sighs. I nuzzled her bare neck, kissing her with more passion, while my hand traced lightly along her belly up toward her left breast. I could see the outline of her nipple now, its pink hardness pressing against the thin white cotton of her nightgown.

I didn’t go directly to her nipple, though. Instead my fingers explored the underside of her small breasts first, teasing her, and only after she stretched her chest even further forward did I allow my fingers to strum the tip of her nipples, like the most delicate note on a guitar.

This time she made a lower sound, almost a guttural moan. She had gotten fired up fast. Finally she opened her eyes, regarding me with the same humorous superiority she had displayed the day before. Her features slowly resolved into a pleased smile, and at last she spoke.

“You came.”

I smiled too, even more broadly. This was getting to be a theme. She reached for the top button of my shirt. I helped her, undoing the buttons as fast as possible without tearing my shirt. Before it was off, her delicate fingers were working at my belt, and getting the idea, I slipped off my shoes, socks and pants, and quickly joined her in the bed.

I was in paradise. My wandering hands discovered the softest skin on the most languorously generous body I had ever touched. I covered her loveliness with kisses, moving further down her chest to her flat yet rounded belly (how do women do that?), and then I returned to her face, devoured her with increasing urgency. Not letting me waste too much time on my mapping expedition, she found my hand and gently guided it between her legs. There I found she was surprisingly moist – even wet – and her reactions to every touch confirmed that she was already aroused. I realized she must have been masturbating before I arrived. This was not to be a cold start and a long drawn out foreplay. She was ready for action.

As if reading my thoughts, her arms now went above her head, and she arched her back in such a way that only a dunce would not understand. I grabbed the hem of her nightgown, and slipped it up her and off her in one smooth motion. She now lay back in the most open, classic pose that a woman is capable of. Accepting the invitation, I mounted her with all the eagerness of a missionary about to convert a heathen.

And a heathen she became – totally wild. As I slipped into her luscious wetness, her high, melodious grunts expressed all of the pent up emotions of a passionate woman and a nervous teenager. Somehow she combined the delicacy of a dancer with the urgency of cat in heat. Even entering her carried surprises I had never experienced, her tightness being that of a young virgin, but her wetness testifying to her wanton lust. As I continued to plunge into her with increasing speed, it was as though I could feel what she was experiencing, which only intensified the pleasure for me. This was not a woman who was mentally reviewing her shopping list while some guy was banging away on top of her.

I had never been with a woman who was so open to me. She seemed to have shifted to a dream state where she was pure sensation, feeling everything I was doing to her, and letting me do anything I wanted to her. I took her arms and pinned them over her head with one hand, allowing me to watch her breasts jiggle with every one of my thrusts. I pulled her legs up to her shoulders, penetrating more deeply into her womb. Her body folded in half with total ease, and she rewarded my efforts with the tip of her delicious tongue, which spurred me on even more.

I rolled to her side and scissored into her pussy from a new angle, while mauling her tits with both hands. She was as pliable as silk and again rewarded me with new sounds of satisfaction, which mounted in volume when my hand crept to her neck and held her captive there. This woman was a kaleidoscope of womanhood – an austere beauty from a distance, a bold seductress when luring me to her bedroom, a tremulous teenage girl when my body first touched her pink lips and lithe breasts, and now a sultry but submissive nuclear reactor who absorbs every movement of her lover until she’s ready to explode.

It was a crescendo worthy of Tchaikovsky – with kettle drums and cymbals galore. I didn’t know what to expect, but I certainly didn’t expect this magnificent finale, a real life experience most people only dream about. She may be a little shy, but she takes her sex very seriously.

Exhausted, we slept for a half hour, and suddenly she rose and started walking to the bathroom. Seeing her like that was breathtaking ... naked she was even more beautiful than I had realized. She turned to me as she slipped into the bathroom.

“I have to go soon. Can you find your way out?”

I was dismissed.

It was like a dream come true, but a strange dream. If anything, she was an even greater mystery. But I had just slept with a goddess, and I didn’t care.

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