by Judy Valenzuela
(12/11/02)

"If I had to come back as a food I'd come back as..." She pauses, shifts and closes her eyes in dreamy contemplation. "Sourdough bread starter, definitely."

"Sourdough bread starter?" He blinks, surprised. He thought she'd choose a sliver of the richest, moistest chocolate cake served on an exquisite china plate or a morsel of the lightest meringue pie with a flaky, pale crust. At the very least, some kind of elegant, tasteful dessert to match her elegant, tasteful appearance. Personally, he could picture her as an apple turnover, a sentimental favorite of his that had crossed his mind when he'd turned her over and peeled off her expensive panties, exposing the sweet cleft of her bottom.

"Sourdough bread starter?" he says again, his voice muffled as he kisses the dimple at the base of her spine.

"Umm hmm." She digs her bare toes into the comforter as his tongue circles slowly downward.

"It's the bitter cold winter of 1850 and the gold rush is in full swing. At one isolated camp high in the mountains, a deadly storm has cut off the supply line. The miners are starving and the camp is falling down around itself. Filth runs down the makeshift roads in front of the tents and the men themselves are as ruined and threadbare as the rags they cover themselves in. As the winter and the darkness and the hunger deepens, many of them just give up and let the cold freeze in their lungs, stealing from them even the small luxury of a dying breath. Soon all that's left of the camp are a few desperate miners and me, a crock full of sourdough bread starter."

Running his tongue in and around the soft spaces between her legs, he's aware of the scent of her skin (vanilla, cucumbers?) and its peach-fuzzy texture. He hungrily licks up a puddle of sweet sap (pussy juice?).

"How do you keep them from eating you?"

"Well, I have a keeper, an older man who has somehow earned the respect of these wild, fierce men. Despite the dirt and cold, he keeps me wrapped and warm in a clean crock and guards me as carefully as a virgin in a temple. He takes me out of my hiding place once a day and passes me from miner to miner. Each time, I can feel the pain of their terrible hunger as they take a bit of me to make a tiny loaf of bread. Afterwards, I am always replenished with flour and water. But tonight," she pauses, shuddering, "a vicious fight has broken out. A fight over me."

I'd fight over you, he thinks, as he warms her bottom with his large hands, smoothing away the goose bumps. "Didn't they add oil?"

"Oil?"

"Yeah, to the flour and water before they passed you from man to man. For, ah, moistness."

"No." She wiggles her hips and tucks her cold feet alongside his body, sending a shiver down his spine. "That's for the oil crack."

She looks over at him, smiling. "Now, shall I continue?"

Shaking off the chill, he reaches across to the beside table for a bottle of thick, sweet sesame oil, kissing her entire flank of thigh and hip and ribs and nuzzling the sensitive hollow of her underarm in the process.

"Please do."

"The keeper lays face down in the river, the ice cold water freezing the long strands of his beard to the rocks beneath him. The few remaining men just watch, unable to move, as the winner of the fight unbuttons his bloody rag of a shirt and clasps me tightly against the soft, white skin of his belly, right beneath the thin bone of his bottom rib. Here I am sheltered, safe for now from the violence of weather and man that will soon destroy this godforsaken place."

Gently massaging the oil into the long muscles of her back with his work-roughened fingers, he reconsiders his first choice of an apple turnover. Admiring her magnificent, plush buttocks, he thinks of a plum; firm, yet with a delicate skin, picked early in the season and placed in a bright kitchen window to be sun-warmed and ripened to lush perfection. He glances out the window to the bare spot where he turned the soil earlier in the day. A plum tree! Of course! Planted right there, where he can see it every morning from their bed. And every spring, when its thin limbs are laden with fruit, he'll lay down their quilt and have her beneath a canopy of plums, a hundred ripe little buttocks swaying happily above him.

The sing song rhythm of her voice breaks into his fruit filled reverie. "As he rushes to his tent, I hear his gold nuggets clanging against each other in his pants pocket, now just worthless lumps of cold metal. Now it is I that am more important than gold. I feel his deep groan of pain as the hard nuggets slam into his balls, but he doesn't stop because he must get me into the tent, he must--"

She groans as he moves two fingers, slick with oil, in and out of her bottom and rubs her clitoris in a gentle circle with his thumb.

"Umm, I love it when you do that."

He continues doing that. "You were saying?"

No answer, just a deep, contented sigh.

He prompts. "Inside the tent. "

"Ah yes, we are inside his tent now and he carefully places me on the only clean surface, a tiny table beneath his unused shaving mirror, a relic of his previously civilized life. My rich, warm scent immediately fills the small space and I know that he wants to devour me. He can barely contain himself."

Still moving his fingers inside the silky skin of her ass, he breathes in her dusky scent and feels the blood rushing through him, his cock hard and throbbing. He reaches down and grabs the root between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing, trying desperately to contain himself.

"I know what you mean," he murmurs.

"Hmm?" She looks back over her shoulder but can only see the top of his head with its mop of soft brown hair moving gently between her legs. She catches a glimpse of their reflection in the dresser mirror and notices the darkening bruise on his ribs where he'd banged into the shovel handle as they'd worked side by side earlier in the day. Together they cleared the soil for their spring garden, she in her designer garden clogs, he in his old work boots.

She closes her eyes and continues. "He lies awake on his cot, unable to sleep, barely able to breathe, his ribs bruised and aching from the fight. He just stares at me, unblinking, unmoving. Suddenly I hear the creak of the cot and I am gently lifted and settled next to him in his bed, in the safe place under his arm. He wraps the blankets carefully around my bowl. We lay like this for a long while, but I know that he still does not sleep. Finally, he sits up and I can feel the whole of his body trembling as he kneels before me and lifts the cover off the bowl. He carefully pinches off a tiny sliver from my soft, doughy self and closing his eyes, places it on his tongue. He holds me there like a sacrament given in a stained glass church, holds me like the note of a song he sang to impress a girl a lifetime ago, and he continues holding me until I dissolve and am swallowed in one salty gush."

She rolls over and winds her legs around his waist, pulling him in tight. Kneeling between her thighs, he wraps their big, heavy quilt around her, shielding her from the drafts in the old farmhouse that is now their home. Quite a change, he knows, from her previous address, an antique-filled townhouse where the closest thing to a garden was a botanical print by a Dutch Master.

He runs both hands over her warm belly before he pushes her knees further apart and bends his mouth to her. The taste of salt and flour, warm and thick, rolls over his tongue. Flour? Was that a bubble of flour that just melted in his mouth and slid down his throat? He dips his tongue in again, further this time, and loses himself in a cavern that opens onto a mountainside covered with wild yeast, vines of berries and a warm, purple dawn.

He slides his tongue in and out, over and over, gently nibbling, pressing harder, then softer. Her hips rock faster and faster. Pacing his hands beneath them, he lifts her sweet, straining flesh up to his mouth and holds it there to eat his fill. Plums? Yes, a tart plum explodes in his mouth along with the generous, sugary wetness of a watermelon, pink and ripe, picked on a summer day and heavy in his arms.

He stops for just a second, lays his cheek against her thigh and licks his lips like a consummate chef searching for that one elusive ingredient.

He says softly, "Yes, sweet watermelon and lemons and lusty desert figs, golden plum wine and--"

He dives in again and inhales the familiar scent of a pear as it takes form under his exploring tongue. The fragrance deepens into heady fumes of peach brandy, the warm liquid firing down his throat and heating his belly.

Too soon, he feels her shuddering climax move through him all the way to his deep core place, right behind his balls. After a moment, he hears her voice, just a hoarse whisper. It catches in the curl of his ear, but still he can hear it.

"We lay together until the first glimmer of dawn. The winds have stopped and the air has that clean smell of sunshine after a hard rain. Tucked next to his belly again, I hear the unforgiving growl of his hunger as we hike away from the camp to a secret place he's found. Here one tiny blueberry bush still gives fruit. With careful hands, he picks the berries and builds a fire from the only dry wood he could find, the small table in his tent. Soon I taste the gold dust and river dirt under his nails as he kneads the berries into me and I can hear his one thought: Biscuits, biscuits, biscuits, biscuits."

Giving one final lick to her hard, shaking clitoris, he comes up and places his hands on her biscuits, kneading the soft flesh and sucking on her nipples until they harden into fresh blueberries in his mouth. Sticky juice drips off his chin and slides down into the valley between her breasts. Astonished by the purpleness of it all, he pauses briefly to lick it off.

His cock is rock hard and dripping and he pushes it firmly against her pussy. She spreads her legs and arching her back, pulls him inside. Together they push and pull, open and fold: kneading, kneading, kneading, kneading.

Groaning, he spills his seed deep inside her, seed pregnant with the legacy of the past and the hope of the future. He knows that we, like the flower and the fruit, are grown from seed, recycled and reborn. When we are reborn, we bring along all of our hurts and blessings to use as rich compost from which to grow ourselves.

He understands that the deepest and truest seeds come in the service of love, just like the lovely woman beneath him. As he lays on top of her, his penis softens inside of her body and his breath returns to him. He knows, just knows, that one of his seed has arrived home and, with its destination secured, has begun its rise to warm, rounded, steaming perfection inside the furnace of her belly.

She sighs, unwraps her legs from around his waist and stretches her arms above her head.

"Mmm. I am a goddess, deep, rich in love, nurturing and sustaining, immortal. True soul food."

He rolls over onto his back, yawns widely and scratches his belly, contented. "I'll say. Myself, I've always been partial to yams."

"Yams?"

She reaches down and picks up the soft tuber of his penis. Holding it gently in her palm, she bends over and kisses it.

"Let me tell you about yams."

Our permanent collection of erotic stories