Prompt Day #365: Free-write an excessively verbose and sensory laden moment of indulgence in your favorite sin. Go on. You deserve it. (However, you get bonus points if your entry ends in a poetically cruel punishment.)
Here it is, the LAST PROMPT. I did it. I did every single one. 365 of them. Insane how that little idea changed my life. A year ago I had just left a job I loved for something new and different and scary, but I wanted more time to spend with my family and more time to work on my hobby. I have wanted to be a writer since I picked up Stephen King’s Pet Sematary in the sixth grade and said “I want to write like him and I want to write scary stuff” But I took the road well-traveled and became a doctor instead, telling myself I can always write later. But later never came until I realized I had to go out and find it. It was never going to come to me. So I went to it and then the world started spinning in a completely different way and I changed from a girl who wanted to be a writer to a girl who IS a writer and all because I challenged myself. The pieces all came together from there and in a year or two, I plan to have more written: books, short stories, the world is wide open. So, what have I learned in this year? I learned that no matter which of the many roads you take, none of them are one way. You can turn around, go back and try another path. I did, and it really did make all the difference.
Now, as for this prompt. I couldn’t pick just one sin, they are all such fun, so I combined my top two into this story. And you, my friend, you have been with me on this journey and so it seems fitting that we travel through this last story together. I dedicate this last one to you, my darlings. Let me buy you dinner. Let’s indulge.
Food and wine. God, I love it. I love the feel of food on my tongue and the way wine makes the flavors pop. It turns me on, makes me feel sexy and gorgeous. Each sip of wine that warms my cheeks and breasts enhances the smooth, flavors of gourmet foods. Small plates come one after another and with each one, a different wine. White to rose to red to sweet dessert wines work inside of me to make me feel like a princess as I bring dainty foods to my lipstick covered lips. Creamy sauces, sinfully butter laden slide down my throat, soothing the burn of the alcohol. I lick my lips a new layer of gloss on them from the food. Edible orchids with purple blush sit on the side of my dish mirroring my own flower warming in its tropical jungle as the pleasures of indulgence overwhelms my senses. Come with me; let’s share a meal together…
High end dishes are often costly in both price and calories, the feeling it gives you of power and recklessness is a foreplay. Cheese, tangy and thick spread on a piece of bread, followed by a cool soup strained such that it is liquid ambrosia with a savory flavor that forces you to take it in small doses sip by sip off your fancy spoon. Drink your wine, let it warm you back up and wait for the next course.
Something else cool, maybe a shrimp carpaccio with a hot oil drizzled over it and dried pepper for bite. Or cubes of expensive raw tuna each with a small dollop of cream and microgreens. The umami massages your mouth seductively and you become aware of each movement of your tongue and the peristalsis of your esophagus as it undulates like a lover’s hips taking it all in.
A hot dish now. Something that allows you to taste what the sacrificial beast ate before it died for your sin. Fresh air and vegetation dance with striations of muscle fibers breaking between your teeth. Roasted root vegetables bring the earth to you, and you taste your origins. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Nothing makes you want to fuck more than the knowledge that this isn’t forever. None of it. So eat, drink, fuck and be merry. Use your body in every way possible. Indulge, intoxicate every sensation.
Next the lobster. You rip the shellfish apart with your bare hands. Release your animal instincts. Feel the juices drip down your fingers, your lips, your throat. You savor the sweetness of the velvet muscle that whispers secrets of the sea. Set it swimming again in an ocean of clarified butter, butter so clear you can see every dream you’ve ever had in its golden hue. Imagine your hands wet with the spoils of indulgence running over your lover, succulent and honeyed. Flavors intermingling until no one knows the origin of the nectars dripping off your bodies.
The chef, who would normally be sending out dessert has seen and noted your orgasmic pleasure in his creations. He wants you to enjoy even more, he knows you are the kind of person who can take anything and everything he dishes out and he wants to give his all to you. Wants to see you take in every bit of it. The waiter brings something more and just when you think you can’t possibly swallow another bite, you’re aroused by the dish set in front of you.
“Sannakji” The waiter announces and reveals the dish. You gasp. A wriggling octopus rolls around its bowl as if on Ecstasy. Each tentacle writhes about feeling, as a means of identification, its current situation. The chef appears, his long, hard tool in hand. He is going to cut off the squirming, seeking, sucking appendages.
“No.” you put out a firm hand and stop his wrist. “I want it all, don’t make it easy on me.” You say.
You grab it out of the bowl, it wraps itself around your finger in a lover’s embrace, suckling on your skin. You gently admonish it and pull it away. Grabbing it instead with chopsticks, you bring the head into your mouth. Your tongue works more of it inside until you’ve almost swallowed it. A lightly seasoned rubbery mass. You could chew but decide it best to swallow quickly before the thing can pull away. Suppressing your gag reflex to allow the globus of flesh ample room. Your throat opens wider to accommodate. The chef is watching, transfixed by the coupling of his creation with your body.
You are not used to having something this deep in your throat begin to move but it does. Slightly at first and then more. The Lovecraftian beast is maneuvering itself in an effort of survival. The tentacles you insisted upon keeping have turned against you. The creature opens itself fully within your throat first choking you and then cutting off your air supply entirely. You bring your hands up instinctively in the universal sign that you cannot breathe. The culmination of lust and gluttony, the moment just before release, has stalled in time and there will be no explosion of pleasure here. There will be no gasping in sweaty finality. Instead, flavors dull, color dims, and instead of the scent of roasted meat, you smell your own piss and shit as the end draws close and your lover, your food, your dangerous addiction ends you.