Sex au Jus

I met her by the rice pilaf sneeze guard. She was ladling rice onto her plate while trying, unsuccessfully, to balance a salad bowl in the crook of one elbow, so I reached around and rescued the bowl. She was startled and burst into a grateful smile, which dropped like a rock when she recognized me. Ah, well. The smile had been worth it.

“Thanks, Robbie,” she said, looking down again. I waited until she was finished scooping up mushrooms. She took her time, obviously hoping I’d set the bowl down and leave, but finally she took a deep breath and met my eyes.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “C’mon, I’ll help you back to your table. Where you at?”

Her lips twisted, like she was swallowing lime juice, and then she jerked her head towards the back, away from the rest of our co-workers. I followed her to her table and set the bowl down, then sat across from her. Before she could start to complain or throw things I asked, “May I join you? If I go back I have to pretend I haven’t heard Jim’s fishing story for the 50th time.”

Another deep breath. God, she was magnificent. “Look, Robbie, I’m sorry it didn’t.”

“Hold up,” I interrupted. “This is not a play for you. We work together, and I asked you out because I liked you. Still do.” I started fiddling with a napkin, suddenly awkward. It felt like I was about to violate some sacred guy law by talking about feelings, but what the hell. I could always go punch something later. “I know I screwed up, but I don’t want it hanging between us for years and years until you’re glaring at me across the hall in the rest home. I’d like to be friends. You’re a good person, and you’re funny when you let yourself relax. There, that’ s everything I practiced. You can yell at me now. G’head, yell at me, I dare you. I double dare you. Do it and I’ll scream rape!”

Her lips were twisting again, but I recognized this one—this was the way she looked when she was trying desperately not to laugh, so I pressed my advantage. “Tell you what, you can make a caveman lunge at me and then we’ll be even. Here, I’ll close my eyes and you can.”

“All right!” she said, giggling but still wary, if that makes sense. “Okay, you can stay. Be good. You’re on probation.” I thanked her and set my drink down to go get my own food. When I looked back she was still there, watching me leave. She hadn’t made a move towards her steak knife yet, that was a good sign.

Maggie Seger was easily the most beautiful woman in our office. Short, slender, curvy body, dark curly hair that I suspected was very, very soft. And skin so clear and smooth it looked like spun glass. She had told me her parents were mixed races, and obviously they had mixed very well indeed. Unfortunately I didn’t get to hear much more about her life because by then I had made my stupid, fumbling move at her and our first date was over before the first bite of the main course. Thinking back I still can’t believe that I misjudged her so badly. I’m usually pretty good at telling if a woman was interested in me or not (hint: vomiting is a sure giveaway) and I coulda sworn she had the “kiss me” look right before she hit me with her broccoli quiche and stormed out of the restaurant. I mean, I don’t just seize women for my own immoral purposes. I honestly _like_ the people I date, and I love the slow, romantic process of getting to know them inside and out. Then I seize them.

I had to give her credit though, the next day at work it was like nothing had happened. I feared spiteful office gossip (at best) or an inquest from Human Resources (at worst), but I never heard anything from anybody about it. Especially from Maggie, who seemed to look right through me on those times when she couldn’t avoid me outright. Come to think of it, it was kind of unusual to see her on one of our Friday office lunches; she usually avoided those too. I had the impression she wasn’t a real people person, you know? But there she was, watching the cook flip the strips of red meat over and over.

Every Friday our office, in a fit of manic executive board anti-disgruntlement appeasement, would venture out for a long lunch. It was supposed to be a way of blowing off steam and binding us all together into a family. Unfortunately it worked, and now we spent every Friday afternoon bickering, arguing, gossiping, yelling, and entering into vast and complicated alliances and feuds between departments before finally ganging up on Sales. This Friday we were trying a new place—Mongolian Steak and Grill, over on Hamilton, where the sushi bar used to be. It was too dark inside to get a good look at the food but it sure smelled good, and our crowd was having a great time watching the cook toss onions and peppers into the air like popcorn. I grabbed my salad, picked out some ingredients for my stir-fry and left them waiting for the cook’s attention. Just then he was intent on spinning a spice jar on the edge of his knife, so I headed back to wait.

Maggie was watching him, fascinated. “I didn’t know you liked Mongolian,” I said. “I should have brought you here instead.”

“Never been here before, but after Sherri described it to me I just had to come. It’s great, huh? Smell that!” She inhaled deeply, which caused her silk blouse to expand and test her button strength. With a coy smile she looked back at me. “I would have been really mad at you if you made me walk out on you here. Oh, look!”

The cook finished spinning his cutlery and tossed some strips of meat into the stainless steel wok in front of him. A loud hissing came out of it, and a powerful scent of sizzling beef filled the room as he continued to pitch vegetables into the mix. It was like watching a master juggler or a man with three girlfriends; his arms never stopped moving. I started to say “Wonder if he does chainsaws too,” but then I got a good look at Maggie’s face.

She was horny. I mean, total lust-filled craziness. Her usual demure, shy, “Little House on the Prairie” expression had burned away and underneath it was a wildcat in heat. I forced myself to sit back and relax. I mean, this was exactly what had happened before. We were talking, she got that “fuck me right now, goddamit” look in her eye like someone snuck up and flipped her switch over to “Nympho”, and the next thing I knew I was digging melted cheese out of my ear. So obviously it wasn’t me she wanted.

The cook? Didn’t peg her for the type to like sweaty old Asian men, but she wasn’t looking at anybody else. Wrong angle for her to be checking out any of our co-workers. And how did that explain our date? Did she spot a Pat Morita look-alike behind me that night and I just misunderstood? Not enough answers, so best to shut the hell up and keep watching.

Just then the cook whirled and, with a flourish, slid a mass of steaming food onto a large plate and held it up towards her. Before she could get up I was already halfway there, waving her back down. I grabbed her plate, piled high with thick folds of beef and a token smattering of veggies, and turned back to see if I could catch her staring and figure out her interest. Ha! Bond, James Bond! Cleverly disguised as a waiter, I shall discover your secrets, my dear!

But Maggie wasn’t looking at the cook anymore. She was looking at me. To be specific, she was looking right at my crotch, and there was no disguising the hungry look she was giving it. She looked like she wanted to eat me alive, right then and there, and was willing to swallow my change and car keys to get to me. A quick mental check—nope, nothing especially hard down there right now, although I could tell it was on its way. Halfway back I surreptitiously raised the plate a bit so I could check myself out for an open zipper or suspicious stain.

And like a cat waiting for scraps, her eyes followed the plate. I moved the plate down, and she was looking at my crotch again. I slid the plate to the side; her eyes tracked it perfectly. Totally confused now, I set the plate in front of her and dropped back into my chair.

Instantly I disappeared from her consciousness, along with everybody else in the world. She was too busy trying to swallow fast enough so she wouldn’t drool, and only years of good manners kept her from digging in with her hands. Stab went the fork into a huge piece of beef and, instead of cutting it, she rolled it until there was a handball-sized wad of meat on the end. She raised it slowly to her lips, closed her eyes, and worked it inside, moaning and letting her lips rest on it for a moment before forcing herself farther. It looked exactly like she was choking down the biggest dick in the world, and if I wasn’t hard before I sure as hell was now. Jesus God, what the fuck was up with this woman?

She chewed the chunk slowly and sensually, but it wasn’t for my benefit. I could have been gone, or naked, or on fire, for all she cared just then. She had her perfect lover and she was swallowing him alive while his juices ran down her chin. She sucked and nibbled on the end of it until she had worked a bit free, and, never removing her mouth from the ball, she swallowed and eased her lips forward to work on the next load.

I had never in my life wanted so badly to be a forkful of food.

What the hell was going on? And how could I get some of it? I looked down at her plate. It looked tasty, sure, but what the fuck? What the hell did we order before? Let’s see, she had the broccoli quiche, and I had filet mignon. Blood rare, as God intended. I had just sliced into it and. she got that look again. Son of a bitch, that was it. Maggie wasn’t hot for me that night; she wanted my meat! Well, you know what I mean. She was a meat freak! A beef fetishist. A steakophile. A. I had to keep thinking stupid thoughts like this, because just watching her wriggle while she deep-throated her stir-fry was causing me to almost lose it right there under the table. I honestly think that if she hadn’t been wearing panty hose that fork would have disappeared under the table in a heartbeat.

I couldn’t let this slide. When God hands you something like this, you have to grab it and say thank you! But did I really want to get into this kind of kink? I mean, this was one I had never heard of before, and I used to live near Times Square. Meat? Where would I take her for a romantic evening, the slaughterhouse? Is high cholesterol sexually transmittable? Would I come home one day to catch her masturbating to “Iron Chef” videos? If I bought her a Coney Island dog, would I have to worry about where it would end up? But damn, she was gorgeous. Her nipples were rock hard, plainly visible through her blouse, and there was a maddening meaty scent that wasn’t coming from the grill. I snuck a peek under the tablecloth; her toes were curled.

Suddenly she dropped her fork and looked at me, horrified. “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” she said, hiding her face in her hands. It was only partially successful; the fact that her body was still shuddering with desire kinda blew the effect. I started to reach out and reassure her but she leaped from her chair and ran, awkwardly, for the bathroom.

On the other side of the grill our co-workers were watching, raptly, with big happy smiles that quickly turned into expressions of concern when they noticed me looking. So much for a gossip-free work environment. I decided that friendship counted more than embarrassment and went to meet her when she emerged, damp but presentable, moments later. She dropped her eyes and tried to push past me.

“Please, don’t say anything, I am so embarrassed.”

“Why? I like a woman who enjoys a good meal,” I said. She sort of snorted and sobbed at the same time and tried to go around the other side; I moved again and lifted her chin up. “It’s okay. Really. C’mon, sit down and talk about it. Or don’t. Or I can leave you alone right now, but I’ll still say hi in the halls and I’ll still send you Xerox copies of my butt on holidays. But no matter what, I won’t tell anybody anything you choose to share with me. Deal?”

She sniffed a few times and then smiled. “Only if you leave me off the butt list.”

“You’re a hard woman.”

Back at the table she carefully pushed her plate aside and put her clenched hands in front of her. “Look, I’m not going to go into too many details, all right? My parents owned a butcher’s shop. I used to hate it, the smells and the carcasses and. I went vegetarian as soon as I was old enough to know what that was. One day dad hired an assistant and we fell in love, and my first time was in the chopping room, because it was the only place we had, and ever since then the smell and taste and feel of any kind of meat takes me right back there.” Her eyes kept darting over to the still-steaming plate. My own was ready and waiting for me back at the counter, but Adam Sandler would win Best Actor before I left this table.

“So why is this a problem,” I asked. “Find a good-looking butcher and settle down. You’re beautiful, you could get anybody you wanted by wiggling a few times. Go cruise Winn Dixie, they’re the beef people.”

She was shaking her head back and forth. “You don’t understand, I’m still a vegetarian. Do you know what it’s like to get aroused by something that disgusts you?”

“Yeah, my ex-girlfriend. The question is, can you get aroused without it? Can you have meatless sex?”

Maggie looked me straight in the eyes and poked around in there for a few minutes before answering. “I don’t know. I haven’t had. I haven’t done anything since George dumped me.” Her blush brought her skin color up to match her lipstick.


“Stop it, this is hard enough. I’ve never told anybody this, I knew they’d think I was a freak.”

“You told me.”

She smiled ruefully. “Yeah, well, you already thought I was a freak. Besides, I smacked you with a quiche, I figured I owed you an explanation.” We laughed together, and I fell in love with her all over again for about the tenth time. I’m sure that there were other people in the restaurant, but all I could see was Maggie; her shining face, her luscious hair, her magnificent hooters. Hey, it’s not like I haven’t had girlfriends with strange diets before, right? So I took a chance.

I straightened to my full height and declared, “Maggie, I have the answer for you. Aversion therapy.”

She jerked away from staring longingly at her plate. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been hiding from meat for years, right? Of course it has a disproportionate effect on you! You need to be exposed to more meat, um, I mean, you need to have more meat hanging around you. damn. You won’t get used to it if you run away from it. There, that’s what I meant. I think.”

She seemed to be both amused and pissed, which I interpreted favorably since it gave me a 50-50 chance. “And this would happen.?”

“At my place. Dinner, tomorrow night.” At this she lost it, bursting out with a girlish squeal and laughing again and again. I bore it with calm dignity.

Finally, she got some air back in. “And this is to help me? You’re not just doing this to have sex with me?”

“No, no, of course not. I’m doing this to help you and have sex with you. Because that’s just the kind of giving guy that I am. Now, do you want a doggie bag, or will you hump it here?”
The next day I was a busy boy. It took over $400 of groceries, three borrowed barbecue grills, and catering for the dishes I didn’t have time for before I was satisfied. I may have gone a bit overboard, something I realized when I was getting ready and actually found myself wondering whether I should slap on a little A-1 before she arrived. Look, it’s not every day you get a date coming over that you know, 100% certainty, will have sex with you. Even when I was engaged once I didn’t have that, which could be why we didn’t stay engaged. Maybe it wasn’t a sure thing; maybe I’d only get to watch her go into an uncontrollable masturbatory frenzy with a pot roast, but I was willing to take that chance.

The steaks were just ready when the bell rang. I hurried over to the door and swung it wide to reveal Maggie, absolutely gorgeous in jeans, high heels and a low-cut cotton blouse. Daisy Duke in formal attire. She, in turn, seemed dazzled by my own ensemble: charcoal-gray slacks, silk shirt, tie, and frilly “Kiss the Cook” apron. She fought valiantly to keep from bursting out in hysterical laughter and was about to lose when the scent of the apartment reached her and she was suddenly transposed.

My apartment had been converted into a steakhouse kitchen, or an upscale abattoir. The kitchen counters were stacked with platters of beef, pork and ham, strings of sausages hung from the shelves, and pans of browning hamburger were still simmering on the stove. The powerful smell of grilled chicken, hamburgers and hot dogs blew in from the open balcony, where my three new grills were chugging away. The oven was stuffed with meatloaf, beef casserole, veal parmigian, and six Cornish rock hens, while a massive pot of chili bubbled merrily away on the burner. The table was set with two plates, wine glasses, and a breadstick jar with a handful of raw wieners in it. There was a sidebar nearby with a fondue pot and an assortment of raw meat, and a big bowl of rock shrimp on ice next to a platter of snow crab legs and a tureen of butter. My refrigerator bulged with cold cuts and turkey rolls. My crock-pot runneth over.

Shit! I leaped into the kitchen and killed the heat under my meatballs, then rushed back out to finish greeting Maggie. She hadn’t moved. Standing stock still, eyes closed, she was breathing deeply, over and over, letting her entire body absorb the sensations. Gently I took her arm to guide her over to the table, and then I adjusted my grip and guided her somewhat more firmly. It was like herding a frightened gazelle; she was completely tense, ready to bolt and run at any second. She slid into her chair and just looked around for a few moments while I busied myself with drinks.

“I don’t believe this,” she said in a deep, husky voice, but I wasn’t sure she was talking to me so I let it go, setting a glass of wine in front of her. Her hands were clenching, over and over, so I left her there to come to some sort of sexual equilibrium while I basted the turkey. When I came back she was sitting perfectly still, with a small smile on her face, and reaching tentatively for a weiner.

I smacked her hand with a spoon. “Ah, ah! All in good time. First things first, we cannot rush such a fine meal.” I bowed to her, and then turned to the counter behind me and produced, with a grand flourish: salad bowls, one for each of us. She looked down at the only green thing in the entire room and raised her eyebrows in a sardonic question. “Please, please,” I urged. “You’ll insult the cook and he won’t let you fuck dinner.”

Maggie muttered obscenities at me but started eating her salad. I could see her nostrils flaring with every bite. It had to be torture, being surrounded by the object of your desire but being unable to touch it, but I wanted to make sure she really wanted to do this and this gave her some breathing room to make up her mind. Or else I just loved the idea of making her wait for it; I’m not that sensitive a guy, really.

We chatted a bit while we ate, but her mind wasn’t really in it. She nodded and smiled and agreed with me as I told her about my achievements in thoracic medicine, astrophysics, the Winston Cup circuit, the time I saved the lives of everyone in Congress after they all got stuck in a tree one day and how my penis was the original model for all the vibrators in the world because of my natural horizontal vein placement. She accepted it all with a faint smile and wide, dreamy eyes, nodding occasionally and wordlessly stuffing lettuce in her mouth. I finally took pity on her, and my own crowbar dick, and got up to get the first course. She stood up as I passed and took my arm, saying, “Robbie? I want you to know that whatever happens, I came here to see you, okay? Not all this. It’s.” She took another deep breath, pressing her firm breasts against me. “It’s amazing, and I can’t believe you did it, but I would have come anyway.”

Saying “I kissed her” wouldn’t begin to describe it. I took her mouth, hard and deep, because she was looking up at me and the pounding of my blood would allow nothing gentler. Her arms wrapped tight around my neck while I relentlessly chased her tongue with my own. She pressed herself tight against me and I jerked once, uncontrollably, when my cock pushed up against the softness of her belly and the heat just below. It went on for years, and when I finally pulled away it was to see Maggie, eyes wild and feral, pushing up against me and growling deep in her throat. I nuzzled her neck and whispered into her ear, “You know, just once I wish you’d treat me like a piece of meat.”

She snorted and started to smack me but I produced a strip of teriyaki steak from the counter behind her and carefully let it trail along her neck and collarbone. She breathed in sharply and we both watched as it meandered its way across her chest and dipped briefly into her cleavage. Her nipples grew strong and tall, and I let the steak march over them in its travels. Maggie gasped at each contact, and arched her neck as my little steak train chugged its way up her throat and over her chin. I lifted it slightly so that the end of it dangled just over her face, brushing her lips, and just as she lunged upward to take fully half of it in her mouth I thrust my other hand between her legs.

“Aaaaagmmmmmm!” She cried out and tried to push down on my hand even as she tried to reach up for more steak. I took pity on her and let it drop into her gobbling jaws. Besides, I needed both hands free to get her jeans off. Clothes flew across the room as we both fought to get naked as if our clothes were on fire.

Her first orgasm came from me rubbing a t-bone steak between her legs, over and over, within 30 seconds of her panties hitting the floor. The hot flesh of the steak rubbed hard against the hot flesh of her pussy lips, and she bore down to catch the nubbly edge of fat on her own nub. I helped matters along by pouring mushroom gravy directly on the flesh most in need of moisture, and it sent her over the edge into spasming delight. She got me back with a double handful of liver wrapped around my cock, and I cannot begin to describe the feeling when she used both hands to quickly stroke me into oblivion. She had two more carnivorous orgasms (one with a playful pork chop, one with streams of my grandmother’s homemade spaghetti sauce running over her breasts, spreading across her belly and pooling into her sweet puss where her fingers flew and spattered sauce everywhere) before we finally made love. I had been reaching past her shoulder for some ketchup when she grabbed my hips and guided me home.

This is the part where I describe the pulsing, the throbbing, the indescribably electric feelings of lust and power that swept through me like hurricane tides, and they were certainly there. But what I remember most, even more than her pussy clutching at me, even more than her fingernails raking designs in the grease on my chest, was the sight and the smell of her twisting under (and over) me. Her entire body was swirled in gravy and sauces. Her eyes were primal and dark; a predator’s eyes. Her hair was everywhere, streaked with tomato sauce and bits of hamburger, and it hung in beautiful oily loops over her shoulders. With every thrust her belly tensed, causing psychedelic designs of liquid to shimmer and splash across her body, and her breasts were messy handfuls of marinated meat, sweet and tangy and bouncing and delicious.

And the smell, the maddening, savory, intoxicating smell. If you’ve ever made love to a woman in a roomful of meat dishes after spreading half of them on top of her, you know exactly what I mean. Otherwise, imagine fucking a barbecue. I pulled out to quickly drop and taste her, because the smell of her own juices mixed with the collected juices of her lean and tender play toys was driving me mad. She was filet mignon, impossibly rare and sweet, and I poured wine over her lips to accompany my meal. Finally I drove back into her even as she corkscrewed herself back onto me and we exploded in a wild spasm of culinary delight.

We used every scrap in the room, every morsel. I tired out long before she did, but I remember waking up once when she was sucking on me and humming the Oscar Mayer song, and I vaguely remember seeing her masturbating with an Italian sausage while basting herself over and over. By the next morning my carpets were ruined, my apartment smelled like a three-day luau, and we were madly in love.

We’re still together, although things have changed somewhat. I now have a slight attraction to cooking smells (meaning I get hard as a rock if I smell meat cooking or even hear it sizzling, causing me no end of problems when I go to Outback), and she’s calmed down considerably. Apparently one wild night of overindulgence helped after all, and while she appreciates what we did, she has returned to her vegetarian ways.

She’s not a strict vegan, mind you. She’ll still masturbate with fish or dairy products.

© 2002 Chris Bridges. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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