I sat alone in a plush leather booth, my fingers drumming nervously on the polished mahogany table. The soft, indirect lighting illuminated the room, highlighting the richness of the crimson leather seats while leaving pockets of shadow to deepen the room’s allure. It mingled with the light from the flickering candles, set atop small, round tables and tucked into ornate sconces along the walls, creating a seductive interplay of light and darkness that danced across the room.

The Taboo Tapas Bar exuded an air of understated elegance and indulgence. Every detail, from the black lace curtains framing the windows to the decadent golden accents on the walls, whispered a promise of secrets and seduction. The air smelled faintly of spiced wine and roasted meat, making my stomach growl despite my nerves.

I adjusted the cuffs of my blazer, catching my reflection in a mirror across the room. Twenty-four years old, six feet even, and lean but not quite athletic—that was me. I had a swimmer’s build, as my college friends used to call it, though I hadn’t swum competitively since high school. My brown hair was freshly cut, swept to one side in a way I hoped looked sophisticated rather than try-hard. Hazel eyes stared back at me, betraying the nervous energy thrumming through my veins. I’d even shaved twice today to make sure my face was smooth. First impressions mattered, and tonight, I couldn’t afford to mess this up.

This wasn’t just any date. This was my first date with her. An older woman I’d met through the bar’s exclusive service—a service designed for those who sought the allure of experience and maturity. Out of the blue, I had received a registered letter in the mail, stating that she would like to get to know me. The photos she’d provided had left me spellbound, and I knew immediately that I had to meet with her. One in particular stood out: her lying on a beach in a one-piece suit, her large breasts barely contained by the flimsy material as she smiled seductively at the camera.

She was everything I’d ever desired in a woman: confident, poised, and utterly stunning. A cascade of dark brown hair, lips curved in a knowing smile, and eyes that seemed to look straight into my soul from the photograph. She was completely out of my league, and yet here I was, waiting for her to walk through those grand, arched doors.

My palms were sweating, so I wiped them discreetly on my trousers and reached for the menu to distract myself. The names of the dishes teased me, each one sounding more enticing and mysterious than the last. Eve’s Bite, Bound & Buttered, and Sweet Submission all sounded great, but I could hardly concentrate on them at the moment. This place was as much about the experience as it was about the food. The atmosphere buzzed with hushed conversations and the occasional burst of laughter, but I could only focus on the empty seat across from me.

The waiter had come by twice already, asking if I wanted a drink while I waited. I’d declined, not wanting to seem overeager, but now I regretted it. A cocktail might have taken the edge off. As the seconds ticked by, I couldn’t help but imagine what she’d look like in person. Would she wear one of those elegant dresses she’d worn in her photos? Would her smile be as enchanting as it came across in print? And most importantly, would she like me?

The door opened as the host ushered someone inside, helping her to remove her coat. My breath hitched as I glanced up to take her figure in. That hair. That fantastic figure. It was her.

She stepped inside with the kind of grace that made the world seem to slow down. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her left shoulder, framing a face that was every bit as stunning as her photos had promised. Her lips curved into a warm, knowing smile, and those eyes—intense, intelligent, and captivating—swept the room before landing on me. She wore an elegant, figure-hugging dress that shimmered subtly in the low light, its square neckline showing off her ample bosom. Her bare neck begged for a choker to wrap around it, but I guess I couldn’t hope for everything to be exactly how I’d like.

My heart pounded as she glided toward the booth, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. She was everything I’d hoped for and more, an image of elegance and confidence that left me momentarily speechless.

I stood up quickly, too quickly, knocking my knee against the table in the process. “Ow,” I muttered under my breath, wincing, and then straightened, trying to salvage whatever composure I had left. My heart raced as I debated whether to extend a hand, lean in for a hug, or do something else entirely. The uncertainty froze me in place, my hands awkwardly hovering by my sides.

Her smile widened slightly, and she tilted her head, studying me for a moment. Then she spoke, her voice smooth and rich, with just the faintest hint of amusement. “You must be Ethan,” she said, her tone warm and inviting. “Am I right?”

“Yes, that’s me,” I managed to say, my voice a little shaky. Then I added, “And you must be Isabella.” Her name rolled off my tongue like a melody, elegant and sophisticated, just like her. My heart was pounding so loudly I was certain she could hear it.

She laughed softly and nodded, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she slid gracefully into the booth across from the side I had been sitting on. Her gaze wandered, taking in the lush interior of the bar—the crimson leather seats, the dark wood paneling, and the soft glow of candlelight. For a moment, she seemed lost in the ambiance, her expression a mix of curiosity and appreciation.

I managed to lower myself back into the seat, though my movements felt clumsy in comparison. Clearing my throat, I asked, “Would you care for a drink?”

She turned her attention back to me, her smile both reassuring and slightly mischievous. “That sounds like a perfect idea,” she said, her voice smooth as silk.

Nodding, I raised a hand to flag down the waiter. Almost instantly, he appeared, a young man dressed sharply in black, exuding professionalism. “I’d like a Ruby Whisper,” said Isabella. The name itself felt as sophisticated as she was, and I marveled at how effortlessly she made even ordering a drink seem elegant. He took Isabella’s drink order with a courteous nod and a subtle glance in my direction, as if silently acknowledging my nervousness. It was only after he stepped away that I realized I’d neglected once again to order one for myself.

We made awkward small talk while we waited, my words fumbling over themselves as I tried to find the perfect balance between charm and anything resembling coherence. Isabella, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease, her smile never wavering. She asked me about my favorite places to travel, and I stumbled through an answer about a recent hiking trip to the Rockies, all the while silently hoping I didn’t sound too boring.

When I nervously returned the question, her eyes lit up with excitement as she described Paris in the spring—the winding streets, the cafes, and the way the Eiffel Tower sparkled at night. She laughed softly, adding that the best memories came from simply wandering, getting lost, and stumbling upon hidden gardens or quiet, candlelit bistros that felt like her own secret discoveries.

In a few minutes, the waiter returned with her drink, setting it down with a flourish. “One Ruby Whisper,” he announced with a smile. “This is crafted with blood orange vodka, lending a vibrant citrus bite, balanced by the floral sweetness of elderflower liqueur. A splash of pomegranate juice adds a rich, ruby color and a touch of tartness, and it’s finished with a candied orange peel twist, adding a subtle caramelized note. It’s one of our signature cocktails, designed to be both refreshing and indulgent.” He turned to me and placed a crystal tumbler filled with a deep amber liquid on the table. “And for the gentleman, an eighteen-year single malt scotch. You have excellent taste, sir,” he said with a knowing smile before retreating.

I stared at the glass in surprise. I hadn’t ordered it, but it felt like a subtle nudge from the staff—a gift of confidence, perhaps. The staff here were top-notch, and I could feel them going out of their way to make me look good—a kindness I desperately appreciated in the moment.

Isabella raised her glass to me, her smile taking on a playful edge. “To new beginnings?” she offered.

“To new beginnings,” I said in return as our glasses clinked together.

She took a delicate sip of her drink, her eyes locking with mine over the rim of the glass. When she set it down, her smile turned sly, a playful glint sparking in her gaze. “So, Ethan,” she said, leaning forward slightly, her voice soft but teasing, “why is it that you want to date an older woman?”

My breath hitched, and I felt my face grow warm. I hesitated, fumbling for the right words, my mind racing through a dozen evasive answers. “Well, uh,” I started, shifting in my seat, “I think older women are ... more confident. More experienced. They know what they want.”

Her smile widened, and she tilted her head, clearly enjoying my awkward attempt at diplomacy. “Go on,” she encouraged, her tone dripping with amusement.

I swallowed hard, deciding there was no point in hiding the truth. “Honestly,” I admitted, my voice lowering as I leaned in, “it’s partially due to an Oedipus complex. Growing up, my mom was always this incredibly strong and self-assured person, but also nurturing and elegant. She’s also beautiful—like, really beautiful. I used to see the way people would look at her when we were out, and I think part of me just assumed that’s what a woman should be: someone who commands attention and admiration without even trying. I guess it shaped what I’ve always found attractive in women. I don’t think I ever quite realized it until I started reflecting on why I’m so drawn to women with that same kind of confidence and poise.” The words hung in the air, and I braced myself for her reaction.

She blinked once, then tossed her head back slightly and laughed—a rich, melodic sound that somehow put me at ease and made me even more nervous all at once. Her eyes locked onto mine, sharp and glinting with mischief. “Well,” she said, her voice dropping to a sultry purr as she leaned forward, just enough to blur the line between playful and daring, “if confidence and poise are what get your attention, I guess I’ll have to keep you completely distracted tonight. Though ... if you’re already thinking about mommy issues, I can’t wait to see where your mind goes once I have you all to myself.”

I felt my face heat up, and despite every effort to play it cool, I could feel the corner of my mouth twitch into an awkward smile. My brain scrambled for something—anything—to say that wouldn’t make me sound like a complete idiot.

“I—uh ... well, that’s ... distracting definitely sounds ... nice,” I stammered, my voice cracking slightly on the last word.

Her smirk deepened, her gaze flicking over me like she was savoring every bit of my flustered reaction.

“Smooth, Ethan. Real smooth,” I muttered under my breath, running a hand through my hair and trying not to melt into the floor.

But she just laughed again, softer this time, like she was genuinely enjoying my embarrassment. And somehow, that made the nervous knot in my stomach loosen—just a little.

She let the moment linger, her smirk softening into something more thoughtful before she changed the subject. “So, what do you do for work, Ethan?”

I cleared my throat, trying to gather whatever fragments of composure I had left. “I work for one of the major financial firms,” I said, stealing a quick glance at her face to gauge her reaction. “It’s demanding, sure, but I’ve been fortunate. The money’s good, but honestly ... that’s not what drives me. At this point, I’m more focused on finding the right person. Someone I can build something real with. Someone I can share my life with.”

Her smile faltered for just a moment, her eyes flickering with an emotion I couldn’t quite place—bittersweet, maybe, or something heavier. “I like that,” she said softly, her voice carrying a faint, vulnerable edge.

She took a sip of her drink, her gaze briefly dropping to the table before returning to mine. “To answer your question ... I’m a widow. My late husband was successful—very successful—and he made sure I’d never have to worry about money. I sit on the boards of a few charities, and giving back has become a big part of my life. I also love to travel,” she added, her tone brightening slightly as if she were shaking off the weight of the conversation, “but I’ll admit ... it’s never quite the same when you’re doing it alone.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, her fingers brushing the edge of her glass in a slow, almost absent-minded motion. “Do you like to travel?” she asked, her voice softer now, edged with curiosity and something else—something warmer.

I nodded, a genuine smile breaking across my face. “I do. In fact, I’ve been thinking about spending some time in Europe this winter. Skiing in the Alps, wandering quiet streets during the low tourist season ... there’s something magical about experiencing those places without the crowds. I want to take in the art, the history, the landscapes—and maybe indulge in some of the local wines along the way.”

Her eyes lit up, her smile curving into something both playful and wistful as she leaned in slightly. “That sounds absolutely wonderful.” She paused, her gaze holding mine like a hook in my chest. “When I was younger, my late husband and I rented a villa on the Amalfi Coast. It was breathtaking. There was this bed out on the balcony, and at night...” Her voice dipped into something sultry, her lips curling wickedly around the words. “We’d lie there making love, staring out over the water. The sound of the waves, the moonlight on the sea—it was pure magic. A memory I’ve always wanted to relive ... with the right person.”

Her words hung in the air, thick with suggestion, and I was suddenly very aware of how warm the room felt. My mouth went dry as I tried to form a response, but all I could do was glance down at my hands, feeling both mesmerized and out of my depth.

Isabella noticed, her smile softening but not losing its edge. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing over the back of my hand with deliberate slowness before settling there. Her touch was light, teasing, but her gaze was firm, locking onto mine.

“Ethan,” she said, her voice a low purr that felt like it was curling around my spine, “it’s not about the stories you’ve already lived—it’s about the ones you’re willing to write. And I have a feeling...” She paused, her thumb lightly tracing over my knuckles. “ ... you’re going to make an excellent co-author.”

Before I could even think of how to respond, the waiter appeared at our table, his timing so precise I almost wondered if he’d been watching us.

“The gentleman made an excellent choice with the Seven Sins Platter,” he said with a knowing nod toward me. “It’s one of our finest selections and perfect for sharing.”

His words gave me a small boost of confidence, and I managed a grateful smile. “Thank you,” I said, my voice steadier now.

“And would you like to start with an appetizer?” he asked, turning to Isabella.

She didn’t even glance at the menu. “We’ll have the Bound & Buttered,” she said, her tone smooth and deliberate, every word dripping with suggestion. “It’s always been a favorite of mine.”

Her gaze flicked back to me, her lips curling into a slow, wicked smile. “There’s just something about being bound that makes every little indulgence taste... better. Don’t you agree, Ethan?”

My breath caught, and I felt heat rush to my face again as I scrambled for a response. “I—I’m sure it ... enhances the experience.”

Her smile deepened, and she leaned in slightly, her voice lowering just enough to make the space between us feel charged. “Oh, it does. But don’t worry, sweetheart—I’ll go easy on you. At first.”

I froze, caught somewhere between exhilaration and sheer nervousness, and her laugh—rich and throaty—only made it worse. Or better. I couldn’t tell anymore.

“You’ve been here before?” I asked, desperate to steady myself with conversation.

She nodded, her expression softening. “Yes, I have. My late husband and I used to come here. It’s always been a special place for me. So when you asked me to meet you here, I was very happy. It brought back some wonderful memories.”

For a brief moment, the air between us felt heavy, a crack in her confident exterior letting something softer shine through. But then, as if she’d caught herself, her lips curved back into a playful smile, and her hand—still resting on mine—gave a deliberate squeeze.

I suddenly became aware of that touch, her warmth grounding me in the moment. Feeling a spark of boldness, I turned my palm to take hers in my own, my fingers gently curling around hers.

“I’m so happy you’re here tonight,” I said, meeting her gaze head-on. “And, Isabella, you look absolutely beautiful. You are simply stunning.”

Isabella’s cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment, but her smile remained steady, radiating warmth. “Thank you, Ethan. That means a lot,” she said softly, her fingers giving mine an affectionate squeeze. Then, with a glint of mischief, she added, “Careful, though—you keep talking to me like that, and I might start thinking you’ve got plans for dessert that have nothing to do with the menu.”

Her words landed like a spark on dry tinder, and I felt heat crawl up my neck. I opened my mouth to respond, but the moment was interrupted by the arrival of our appetizer.

The waiter set the plate of Bound & Buttered before us with an almost theatrical flourish. The braised octopus tentacles were tied into delicate knots, glistening under the low light and paired with a small dish of saffron aioli. The aroma was intoxicating—smoky, with a hint of citrus and spice.

“Enjoy,” the waiter said with a slight bow before disappearing.

Isabella’s eyes flicked to the appetizer, then back to me, her smile curling wickedly at the edges. “Well, Ethan ... looks like we’re starting with a little bondage after all. I hope you’re ready.”

Her voice was velvet, her gaze steady and unwavering as she reached delicately for one of the tentacles, dipping it slowly into the saffron aioli before bringing it to her lips.

I couldn’t look away.

“This was always one of my favorites,” she said before taking a bite. Her expression melted into pure satisfaction, and she gave a soft hum of approval. “Still perfect.”

I followed her lead, hesitantly taking a bite. The flavors exploded in my mouth—rich, tender, and perfectly seasoned, with the aioli adding a creamy, luxurious finish. “Wow,” I said after swallowing, “this is incredible.”

She laughed lightly, her eyes dancing. “I told you. Trust me, the platter will be just as unforgettable.”

For the first time that evening, I felt myself truly relax. The combination of her reassuring presence, the impeccable food, and the intimate atmosphere of the Taboo Tapas Bar was starting to work its magic. The conversation began to flow more easily, and I felt like I belonged with her at the table.

While we savored the appetizer, our conversation drifted toward art and poetry. Isabella spoke passionately about her love for Impressionist paintings, describing the way Monet’s use of light seemed to make the landscapes shimmer with life. I admitted I’d always been drawn to the darker, more introspective works—paintings and poems that wrestled with complex emotions.

She smiled knowingly, tilting her head as she regarded me. “Like Oedipal themes, perhaps?” she teased, her tone playful yet pointed.

I laughed, albeit nervously. “I suppose so,” I said, feeling a bit exposed but not minding it. “There’s something raw and fascinating about the way those themes force us to confront parts of ourselves we’d rather not examine.”

Isabella nodded thoughtfully, swirling her drink. “It’s true. Art that delves into taboo subjects has a way of revealing truths we didn’t know we were hiding. It’s uncomfortable, but that’s what makes it powerful.” She paused, her gaze sharpening as she leaned slightly closer. “But do you want to have sex with your mother?”

The question hung in the air, bold and unapologetic. My stomach tightened, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or meet her challenge head-on. In the end, I chose the latter. I had left myself open to this by using the Oedipus reference earlier to explain why I was attracted to older women. Now I would simply have to stay the course, for good or ill.

“Yes,” I said quietly, my voice steady despite the tension. “My mother is beautiful, smart, kind, and funny—she’s exactly the kind of woman I’m attracted to. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to fuck her. I want to make her have orgasms until she literally passes out. A woman like her deserves no less than that kind of attention.”

Her fingers drummed lightly against her glass as she leaned back slightly, her smile softening but not losing its edge. “You know, Ethan, most men would have stumbled over that question—or bolted for the door entirely. But you ... you didn’t flinch. I admire that.”

I shrugged slightly, leaning back. “If we’re going to discuss taboo themes, honesty seems like the least we owe each other. There’s no point in pretending those feelings don’t exist when they’re right there, staring back at us.”

The words settled over us, and for a brief moment, neither of us spoke. Then she lifted her glass, her eyes never leaving mine.

“To raw honesty,” she said, her voice carrying a quiet confidence.

I lifted my own glass, my hand steady despite the electric tension still hanging between us.

“To honesty,” I replied.

Isabella studied me for a moment, her lips curving into a faint smile. “You don’t shy away from the uncomfortable, do you?”

I held her gaze, unflinching. “Not if it means getting closer to the truth. And isn’t that what art—and life—is all about?”

Her hand brushed mine lightly, the warmth of her touch sending a jolt through me. “You’re certainly not what I expected, Ethan,” she said, her voice soft yet laden with curiosity.

We finished our drinks as the conversation flowed, and when the waiter stopped by, he asked if we’d like another round. Isabella nodded, her smile lighting up the moment. “Yes, please,” she said. I followed suit, requesting the same drink as before. The waiter disappeared with our order, leaving us with a fresh anticipation of the night ahead.

As the evening passed, I found myself becoming more comfortable talking with Isabella. Her laugh was genuine, her smile disarming, and the way she spoke made me feel like she was truly interested in what I had to say. But as the warmth from the second drink began to spread, I couldn’t help but wonder: was this newfound ease my own, or was it the alcohol doing the heavy lifting?

I glanced down at our hands still resting together on the table, her fingers lightly brushing mine. Whatever the answer, I didn’t want the feeling to end.

As Isabella took another sip of her drink, her demeanor shifted, becoming noticeably more playful. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her smile took on a flirtatious edge. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping just enough to make my pulse quicken.

“So, Ethan,” she began, her tone laced with teasing intent, “if I were to say that I think you have a charming blush, how would you react?”

Caught off guard, I felt my cheeks heat up immediately, which only made her laugh—a rich, melodic sound that made it impossible to feel embarrassed for long. “There it is,” she said triumphantly, clearly enjoying herself.

“I don’t blush,” I protested weakly, though the evidence was written all over my face.

She leaned back in her seat, still smiling. “You’re adorable,” she said, her words disarming yet somehow seductive. “It’s refreshing, really. Most men your age try so hard to be smooth, but you ... well, you’re just honest. I like that.”

Her compliments and playful remarks sent my thoughts spinning, but I couldn’t help smiling back at her, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

She leaned in even closer, her lips curling into a sly smile. “You know,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “if I keep teasing you, I might have to find a way to make it up to you later.”

I froze, completely at a loss for how to respond. My thoughts scrambled for something, anything, to say that wouldn’t make me look like an idiot.

Before I could think of a response, the waiter arrived, saving me from the spiraling tension. He carried a large platter with a flourish, his expression one of practiced confidence. “And here we are,” he announced. “The Seven Sins Platter.”

He placed it carefully on the table, the array of dishes immediately captivating. With a professional smile, he began to describe each one in turn. “Starting with Lust: Champagne-soaked strawberries paired with whipped rose cream. Sensual and indulgent, a perfect opening bite. Next, Gluttony: Pork belly burnt ends glazed in honey bourbon—rich and decadent. For Greed, we have truffle and gold risotto bites, luxurious and earthy.”

He gestured to the next item. “Sloth: Smoked salmon roulade with a creamy dill filling, perfectly lazy yet sophisticated. Then Wrath: Diablo wings coated in ghost pepper honey for a fiery kick. Envy is represented by these vibrant green matcha dumplings with an emerald avocado filling. And finally, Pride: Peacock-colored macarons infused with lavender and Earl Grey, elegant and boastful.”

His words gave me just enough time to regain my composure, though I could feel Isabella’s eyes on me, her smile not wavering. “Enjoy,” the waiter said with a slight bow before stepping back, leaving us to the feast.

Isabella picked up one of the champagne-soaked strawberries from the Lust section of the platter. Slowly, she brought it to her lips, wrapping them around the fruit with deliberate precision. Her eyes met mine as she took a bite, the whipped rose cream smearing just slightly before she licked it away with the tip of her tongue.

Her smirk deepened, and I swore the temperature in the room rose a few degrees. She didn’t say a word, but the way her gaze lingered made it clear she knew exactly what she was doing. My heart pounded as I fumbled for something to say, but nothing seemed adequate.

Isabella leaned back, her expression equal parts playful and seductive. “Delicious,” she murmured, her voice low and velvety. She leaned forward slightly, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Aren’t you going to try one?”

I hesitated, a playful smirk forming on my lips. “I think I’d much rather watch you enjoying the Lust,” I said, my tone teasing but deliberate, savoring the way her smirk deepened at my words.

She laughed softly, a sound that sent a shiver down my spine, and reached for another champagne-soaked strawberry. This time, her movements were slower, more deliberate. She brought the fruit to her lips, parting them slightly before wrapping them around the strawberry. Her tongue flicked over the whipped rose cream, savoring it, before she bit into the fruit with a soft hum of pleasure. A bead of juice trickled down her lip, which she caught with the tip of her tongue, her eyes never leaving mine.

As I watched, completely entranced, I felt something brush against my lower leg. At first, I thought it was accidental, but then the pressure grew more deliberate. Her otherwise bare foot, encased in smooth hose, began to trace slow, teasing circles along the back of my calf. My breath hitched, and I gripped the edge of the table, trying to steady myself as the sensation sent my heart racing.

“Still enjoying the view?” she asked, her voice dripping with playful mischief, her foot never stopping its gentle exploration.

“I am,” I said as she finished the strawberry, her tongue flicking over her lips to catch the last traces of cream. “But now I have to know—what’s your next favorite sin?”