While Your Lips are Red

I think it is fair to say that I have, over the years, sought out and experienced much in the way of sensory and sensual pleasures. Of course, perspectives change over time, or with circumstance. The change brought upon me by Katharina took away some pleasures, and introduced me to new ones; the ecstasy of feeding and the joy of the hunt, though I have to admit that the latter never much appealed, it being too much against my nature to regard my fellow beings as prey. And now, thanks to Isabella’s accidental emissions (that sounded better in my head than it looks written down); I have a short time in which to rediscover a few forgotten ones.

Such as the bacon sandwich! Many times I have seen Gwyn devour such a thing in the various taverns and felt a certain jealousy, a longing for pleasures past. Tonight, it suddenly occurred to me that I could experience that for myself. Strange are the desires of a man, that such a simple thing could become such an overwhelming urge. I abandoned my studies and took myself down to the tavern and requested, nay, demanded that Hal make me the biggest and best bacon sandwich he could manage.  I fear that I alarmed the poor chap; such was my enthusiasm that I must have appeared somewhat manic. For once, I eschewed the rum in favour of the cider that Gwyn is so fond of.

When the sandwich arrived, for a few moments, I was almost reluctant to taste it, in case time had exaggerated the memory, but the smell drifting up from it put paid that fear. Hal had put it down and retreated to a safe distance, as if scared of what I might do to it. I lifted it to my lips, inhaling the smells one more time before taking what was probably an over-enthusiastic bite. I tasted and I chewed and I tasted and I chewed, swallowing with great reluctance. It was everything my memory told me and so much more. I sighed heavily, savouring every sensation of taste and smell, the feel of the melted butter and bacon grease on my lips and fingers, even the sound of it. The rest of the sandwich followed rapidly. Now I have occasionally joked at Gwyn about her less than ladylike manners with food, but what I did to the remainder of that sandwich made her look like the epitome of dainty manners.  Never has the word devoured seemed more appropriate, and I did not stop until every last crumb, every last drop of melted butter, every last spot of grease had been licked off my lips, my fingers and the plate.

When I emerged from my semi-orgasmic haze, I found Gwyn, standing there, looking at me with an amused expression and asking how I was. She moved around behind me and started running her fingers through my hair, which sensory experience I told her she could stop doing in about a year or so. I told her I had just had the first bacon sandwich in over 10 years, so I was more than fine. I then enquired after her health and whether she was getting any more grief from Prince Daddy and Princess Doesn’tknowalot.

Prince Daddy had apparently asked Aislyn to be his consort, whatever that might mean. It sounded more like an official mistress than wife. Gwyn was more concerned about not wanting to call Aislyn Mummy. I suggested she needn’t do that until Aislyn was a wife rather than consort, and even then, only if she wanted to. Apparently, though, the sidhe don’t marry until pregnancy is achieved, which given how rarely they conceive, or so I am told, means there can’t be many weddings.

She then asked me if the red lipstick made her look older.  That was what seemed different.  I told her that I had no idea how old she was supposed to look, and that she was beautiful to me no matter what.  I asked if she was being given a hard time for being young and mentioned Blaise’s comments to me about his under-age daughter.  She rolled her eyes at that, asking if he had really called her that.  She also asked if the lipstick made me want to kiss her more.

I pulled her onto my lap and demonstrated, as well as telling her, that there was possibly nothing that would make me want her more than I did already. I told her about the conversation I had had with Blaise and his recognition that she wasn’t going to want to wait another 78 years for intimacy.  She laughed at that and said that Blaise had offered her the best coming out party a sidhe girl ever had if she agreed to keep her legs crossed until she was 100. Now that made me laugh. “Seventy-eight years of celibacy in exchange for a party?  That would have to be one hell of a party!” She replied that it was very unlikely, since she could barely keep her hands off me for 78 seconds. And there was I thinking that she loved me for my intellect and sophisticated tastes.  That was what got her interested, she told me, but then made reference to the feral way I disposed of my sandwich and asked me to tell her more about my sophistication. I decided to defer sophistication and suggested we should retire to the cabin to find out how feral we could be. And so we did.

A band I do not know, called Nightwish, with a song about red lips

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